Rachel had suggested her father call it a day as well, but Grant said he needed time preparing for Hawley’s funeral the next day. There were calls to be made, arrangements to finalize—not to mention the eulogy Grant was delivering.

“I’ve never taken a shine to public speaking,” he had told John; something Rachel was well aware of. “But it’s the least I can do for poor Stanford.”

“Is there anything I can do to help, Dad?”

“I think this is something I have to do myself,” he’d replied, waving a pen over a notepad with more crossed-out words than not. “You two enjoy your evening.”

Now, looking back, Rachel thought what she’d taken to be a polite good night might have been a not-so-subtle “I-know-what-you-two-are-up-to” shout-out.

If so, she had totally missed it and told John this on the Eye.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “He was pretty direct with me about it.”

The glass enclosed car continued to rise toward the top of the Ferris wheel.

“And he figured that you’d end up telling me.”

“I took it as him giving me fair warning. But it did cross my mind that I was glad the cops over here don’t carry loaded guns.”

John grinned. Rachel couldn’t help laughing.

“Lucky for you.”

The two of them had left the Yard and discussed getting a bite. Stepping out of the building onto the Victoria Embankment, their eyes took in the London Eye and all its multicolored flickering neon glory across the Thames.

“That wasn’t here when I came with my college buddies,” John said. “They might have been building it, but we were on an endless pub crawl.”

“It went up back when I was in secondary school,” Rachel had said.

“Ever been on it?”

Rachel shook her head. “I never could get my father to take me.”

“Party pooper.”

“He’s afraid of heights, actually.” Rachel had noticed him raise an eyebrow. “Don’t tell him I told you.”

“You can totally count on that.” He pointed again at the Eye. “You could have gone with someone else.”

“I never got around to it. It’s one of those things you never end up doing because it’s a tourist attraction in the city where you live.”

“So, what are we waiting for?”

“Seriously?”

“Well, there was this Jack the Ripper walking tour through Whitechapel I read about on the plane—but given how we’ve been occupying our days, this seems like a much better idea.”

Her mind drifted back to the view from his car on the New Jersey ridge.

“I guess you showed me yours the other morning. Since we’re here, I might as well show you mine.”

“I really like that proposition.”

She’d given him a playful shove.

“I was talking about the view, you idiot.”

“I knew that.”

There was that smile again.