I got out of the car, gripping the phone. I tried to remember what Jo said about young people defending the country as I looked at Stephen. He looked tired and there was just a hint of five o’clock shadow along his chin. I had him. I had Callum. I had an old phone.

“Night,” I said, my voice dry.

Chapter 29

29

AGAIN, I WOKE UP AROUND FIVE IN THE MORNING. I’d gone to sleep with the terminus in my hand, but I’d let it go in my sleep. I had to look for it for a few seconds. It was under the duvet, down by my feet. I don’t know what I’d been doing in my sleep to kick it down there. I dug it out and held it tightly, pressing my fingers on the one and nine. I practiced this several times, setting it down and grabbing it back up again as fast as I could, putting my fingers on the buttons. Now I understood why they used old phones—no smart buttons. When the time came, you had to find them and feel them under the pads of your fingers.

I got up and leaned against the heater under the window. Stephen’s police car was parked just outside. It was the only thing I could see very clearly, since the sun wasn’t up—it had yellow reflective squares all over the sides, alternating with blue, and orange and neon yellow on the back. English police cars were serious about being seen.

For everyone else at Wexford, this was just a normal Thursday—mostly. As on the last Ripper day, we would be on lockdown starting after an early dinner. A few police cars were now parked along the side of the building, and some news vans were joining them.

That afternoon, I went to the library. The carrels were all full—people seemed to be going on as usual, working away, cramming down the material for when classes started up again next week. I went directly upstairs, to the stacks. Alistair was in his usual position, draped all over the floor, book in front of him. Today, it was poetry. I could tell from the wide white margins on the page and his particularly languid pose.

I sat down nearby and put an open book on my lap, so I at least had the pretense of reading if anyone found me. We said nothing to each other, but he seemed fine with my presence. A few minutes later, though, a library assistant came by with the cart. He pointed to the book on the ground in front of Alistair.

“Is that yours?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

I should have realized why he was asking, because he reached down and took it away, dropping it on the cart. Alistair looked sour as his reading material rolled off.

“What’s your problem?” he asked. “You look miserable.”