CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

After nearly twenty grueling hours of travel—a flight, a quick sleep, a train, a long drive around narrow roads winding through thick woods—Tillie exited a taxi in front of the Green King Inn, an ancient building that leaned so precipitously toward the cobbled street that it seemed like it might fall over at any moment.

She wondered at her choice, paid the driver, and dragged her small bag behind her toward a thick door situated between two wide mullioned windows. She paused and looked around, asking her gut for any help it might offer. A vegan café stood down the road, and a fish-and-chips shop, and a bakery. She certainly wouldn't starve.

Inside the inn, it was dark and close and smelled of beer. The young woman behind the counter had a nose ring, and the ends of her hair had been dipped in red. "Hello," she said, friendly enough.

"I have a reservation."

She checked her in, four days, which was all Tillie had thought she could spare, and gave her a heavy key. "No elevator, I'm afraid. Take the stairs to the third floor, and your room is on the left. It's a nice one. You'll like it."

"Thanks." Tillie would have been glad to have a nap on a park bench. It was only midafternoon, but she was crashing hard. It was annoying. When she and Jon had done their world tour, she'd been proud of her adaptability—she never got jet lag.

She was out of practice.

The room was better than she'd expected. A big window looked out to the street, and the bed was generous. She dropped her bag, shed her jacket, and fell down on the pillows for just a little nap.

Which ended up being an hour. The buzz of texts woke her up, and she rolled over to scroll through them. Jon had arrived in Crete and sent a photo of gloriously blue seas.

Tillie sent one back of Heathrow. I just got to England.

Wait. You're in London? I'm crushed you didn't come with me! But I guess a lover is a bigger draw.

:( I'm not in London. Liam is, and I didn't follow him. The painter from your show got back to me, and she said the house in the painting is on the west coast of Devon. Here to see if I can find it. Only a few days.

I'm worried UR there alone.

Don't. I'm happy. I have the therapist in my pocket. All is well.

Is it, though?

It's fine. Hey, did you get the text about a cat painting when we were in Hucker's class?

Yes. You don't remember that cat? It was a big painting, giant, and you painted it in two days.

I don't remember. Was it like the cat I've been doing now?

Now that you mention it, yes.

OK. I'm going to get to the bottom of this.

I am only a text away. ANYTIME.

Thank you. I promise I will text if I need you. Also, I promise to go somewhere with you after all this.

Deal.

Go have a cool drink, and eye the handsome men all around. Don't worry about me.

xoxo. Keep me posted, baby.

She'd sent Liam a text before boarding that left things a little vague. She didn't want to lie outright, but it felt ridiculous to tell him that she was coming to England.

Found out a bunch of new information. Will be traveling next twenty-four hours, but will catch up as soon as I can. Miss you!

He'd texted back several times:

Can't wait to hear all about it. Getting ready to head into the workshop. Hope you slept well. XO

Then: Tried to call but missed you. Will try later!

Later: Little window right now between lunch and the afternoon and evening session. Call if you get this.

That had been two hours ago. She rubbed her forehead and typed.

Sorry I missed you. Try tomorrow? I miss you. Really, really do. Been some developments, and I want to tell you all about it, but too long for texts.

Considering all that had happened, Jon's worry was not unfounded, but she did feel fine. Excited, even. If she wanted to solve the mystery, she'd have to get busy. She quickly unpacked, washed her face, and headed out.

The day was bright with spring, but despite the weather, the street seemed quiet for a Saturday. Both the bakery and the café she'd spied earlier were already closed, and when she came across an Italian restaurant, she saw that it wouldn't open until 5:00 p.m. A small market looked bustling, so she crossed the street, thinking she'd get some cheese and bread and fruit, and eat it in a park near the river.

"Hiya," the clerk said, chewing gum, and dragged the packages over the scanner. Then she frowned. "How do I know you?"

Tillie shook her head. She'd had some modest success, but it would be very surprising if anyone here had heard of her. "I don't think it's me."

"You're American!"

She nodded. "Guilty."

"My mistake." But the woman tilted her head, peered through narrowed eyes. Shrugged, then handed Tillie the food. "Ta."

The sun was low, allowing a chill to rise from the ground, but her body was happy to have some fresh air after so much travel. Walking along the river with her bag in hand, she enjoyed the birds and the silvery ripples of the water, feeling at ease for the first time in ages.

At a low-lying spot, a scattering of people were gathered along the banks, children playing in the shallow water, splashing each other, laughing. Parents drank from plastic cups of wine and dangled their toes over the short wall. A sign said W OLF F ORD , and although she'd heard of fords—places to cross a river—she'd never actually seen one. It was so curiously old-fashioned that she decided it would be a good picnic spot. She settled on an empty portion of wall in the sunshine, took off her shoes to trail her feet in the stream, and opened her paper bag. The scent of pastry and paper rose, curiously evocative.

And as the cold water enveloped her toes, the world split.

"Sunny! Sunny! Do this!" A girl with long black hair spun around, splashing her hands through the water—

It was over before she captured much at all. Was it a memory? An actual memory? Did that mean she was in the right place?

She looked toward the buildings of the high street, wondering how to pursue these fragments of memory, how to get to the bottom of whatever was happening here.

In her pocket, her phone rang.