Page 81 of Lucy Undying

But I don’t. If we can’t really know each other, how can we really love each other? Instead, I walk until I have reception. Levi Richardson, Rahul’s solicitor friend, has responded to my email. I pull myself together and we have a quick, productive call.

I keep walking until his follow-up emails and the documents come through. I don’t even bother reviewing them, I just sign and return. I’m stealing something back from my family. Giving a gift to someone who deserves it, instead of taking everything I can from everyone around me.

That’s assuming Rahul and Anthony are willing to sign, too. I hope they will be. I don’t think getting the house will cause them any trouble, but I can’t be certain. There’s always a risk. Maybe they’ll want to close the door on me forever, too. I wouldn’t blame them.

When I finally loop back to Hillingham, trudging through the gloriously wealthy neighborhood, with its grand manors and ancient trees, someone is waiting on my doorstep. It’s not Elle, but Anthony is almost as welcome a sight, sitting there surrounded by bags of take-out containers. He rushes to me and wraps me in a hug.

I lean in, loving the scents of garlic, onion, and ginger on him. He smells like life and nourishment and comfort. I needed this hug so badly.

“Are you certain?” he says as he lets me go. “Really certain? Because this is mental. You’re giving us a house. A mansion. A mansion in a super-posh neighborhood.”

“I’m one hundred percent certain. It’s yours, whatever you want to do with it. Sell it, rent it, move into it. It’s up to you.”

Tears catch in the thick dark lashes around Anthony’s eyes, glittering in the sunlight. He’s beautiful, and so is Rahul, and they’re beautiful together. “We’ve been wanting to start a family, but it hasn’t felt possible. With this, though…” He trails off, looking up at the house with genuine love. I don’t think anyone has looked at Hillingham that way in more than a century. Maybe ever.

I’m trying not to cry, too. “Honestly, you’re doing me a favor. I’ll get to feel good about this for so long. I don’t have many things to feel good about lately.”

“Well, I’m going to repay you. I made you everything on the menu, including a new tub of roasted garlic.”

“See, and now I’m back in your debt again, because that’s worth way more than this stupid old house.” We walk arm in arm back inside and sit at the table. I expect Anthony to leave, but he’s closed the restaurant for the rest of the afternoon. Both to bring me food and to make sure I’m serious.

“Rahul’s on a shift, but he’s coming by as soon as he’s off.”

“To double-check your assessment that I’m not out of my mind?”

“Always good to get a second opinion.” He laughs and scoops more curry for me.

Anthony’s phone dings just as we’ve finally finished eating. “More paperwork in from Levi. I think it’s the last of it.” He looks up at me, uncertain, but not in a pleading way. In a way that gives me an out if I want it.

I don’t want it. “My phone has no signal here. Can I use yours as a hot spot?”

He sets it up. I download the documents and finish signing everything. It’s done. The stolen house is stolen no longer. Whatever Rahul and Anthony do with Hillingham, it’ll be better than Mina and Arthur making it a tomb of bad memories and deadly lies.

Thanks to Anthony’s hot-spot connection, my phone rings. An unknown number. I brace myself for whatever new fuckery Goldaming Life is up to. It didn’t take them long to figure out I was selling this property for a single pound, but they’re too late. Dickie himself told me I could be a philanthropist here, and legally the house isn’t mine anymore. Which means it’s not theirs, either.

I hold up a finger to Anthony and walk down the hall to answer, not wanting him to overhear and worry.

“What?” I say.

“Oh, erm, hello. Is this Iris Goldaming?” The man on the other end of the line sounds old and kind and British, which unsettles me. It’s not the type of voice I expected.

“Yes?”

“Hello, dear. My name is Tim Liu. I’m the director of the London Hills Museum of History. I apologize that we haven’t gotten back to you sooner. Our administrative assistant is on maternity leave, and I’m afraid the messages have been allowed to pile up. I’m also sorry that I don’t have better news.”

My heart seizes. Something happened to Elle. No, he’s probably calling on her behalf to tell me she’s not coming back. That’s it; that has to be it. “Is everything okay? Why are you calling?”

“As a courtesy to tell you that there’s no one on our staff who can provide the appraisal services you need. I can recommend several trustworthy antiques dealers. And if you find anything of local historical value, we’d be happy to consider any donations to our collections.”

“That’s fine,” I say, fighting my burning humiliation. “You don’t need to recommend anyone. Don’t worry about replacing Elle.”

“Who’s Elle?”

I speak slowly, worried my accent is throwing him. “You already sent one of your employees. Elle. She’s been helping me, but she quit today.”

“Oh, dear. This is— Oh, dear. I think you should ring the police. But no, let’s get this sorted before we jump to conclusions. We don’t have anyone on our staff by that name. Did you contact any other museums or stores? Is it possible she works for them? Because I’m afraid perhaps you’re the victim of—”

“Thank you so much, I’ll figure it out on my own.” I end the call with numb fingers. I am figuring it out. Much, much too late.

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