The Semi-Sweet Hereafter (21 page)

No one actually objected, of course. But there was much frowning, muttering, and tut-tutting in the reporters' wakes.

Oblivious to the safety protocol suggested by the yellow painted line at the platform's edge, they crowded right on top of it, even while the last train whooshed away into the tunnel. Another would be along in two minutes, so I did the same thing.

The tumult on the platform was deafening. To all sides of me, people yelled and jockeyed for position. Someone's elbow gouged me. I tottered, then reclaimed my position. I haven't made my way through transit systems all around the world—the U-Bahn, the Metros of Paris, Tokyo, and Shanghai, the Chicago “L,” and more—by being passive. I knew better than to stand meekly.

I wanted to get to the police station and find out what had really happened with Nicola Mitchell. Like, yesterday.

I'd just staked out my own square foot of space when my phone buzzed. I fished it out of my crossbody bag while peering down the tunnel to look for the next train. I was getting on it.

In front of me, a huge advertising poster pushed “city breaks” to Brittany. Beside me, a hardened commuter stood, with his laptop bag secured on the floor between his feet, reading a copy of the
Financial Times.
Unlike the shifting, squirming mass of reporters to my left, he wasn't likely to budge. I edged closer to use him for a shield during the few moments I'd be distracted by looking at my phone, then peered at the screen.

There were three recent missed calls from Travis. They must not have rung through while I'd been underground. There was also a new text message from my financial adviser. I opened it.

Watch out for Andrew Davies,
he'd typed.
H&H had insurance on Jeremy. Dead or disabled meant compensatory payout. Broken contract did not.

That was interesting news. If I understood correctly, Travis's findings meant that while Andrew Davies
had
needed Jeremy to “skyrocket” his family's company “back to success!” Andrew had also had an escape hatch: that insurance policy.

Even now, shambolic Andrew might be pocketing the disbursement that Hambleton & Hart were due because of their spokesperson's death. I didn't know if such corporate arrangements were typical, but it made sense. Hambleton & Hart would have wanted to protect their (expensive) investment in (unpredictable) Jeremy, by whatever means possible.

Leave it to Travis to dig up all the (legal and/or fiduciary) dirt. I'd need to call him to clarify this, but in the meantime, I smiled fondly as I looked at his text again.

Travis wrote text messages as though he were paying by the word. He might as well have used Morse code—his missives were sometimes that concise. On the other hand, he had spelled out
compensatory
correctly, just like the financial genius he was. That was impressive. In true Travis fashion, he hadn't buried the lede, either. He'd barreled right into his suspicions of Andrew Davies, then followed up with a reasonable rationale.

In his own way, Travis had my back too, every bit as much as Danny always did. Travis cared. That meant a lot to me.

On the other hand, we had a confessed killer now. Nicola. That meant that Andrew Davies's potential motive for potentially murdering Jeremy—their advert argument—didn't matter anymore.

A rumble drew my attention back to the tunnel. I glanced briefly down it, glimpsed the train's lights, then looked back at my phone. I needed to stash it before everyone pushed forward to board. If I lost it, I'd lose touch with Travis. Even divided by several time zones and a raging air-travel phobia, we were—

Slipping.
Flailing.
Pushed?
My heart shot to my throat as I tried to keep my balance. The train's approach grew louder.

Hot air buffeted me. The din of the crowd confused me.

One thing was sure: if I fell on the tracks, I was dead. That oncoming train's driver would never have time to stop.

I didn't want to die. But I was
falling,
shaky and queasy.

Suddenly, the strap to my crossbody bag yanked higher, to my throat. I was choking, held in a hideous suspended state at the platform's dangerous edge, eyes widening as I saw the train.

It looked huge. And fast.
Oh, God.
I thrashed my arms, trying to grab hold of something.
Anything.
I felt clothes, brushed someone's arm, heard startled cries as people around me finally realized what was happening. This was it. The end.

Someone wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me to safety, just in time.

My rescuer gave a final mighty tug as the Underground train pulled in. My knees gave way as it whizzed past within inches of my face. The rest of me flew backward. I stumbled, then fell.

Instinctively, I covered my head with my arms so I wouldn't be trampled. My rescuer was already on the job. He hauled me up like a rag doll, then surfed the crowd to the refuge of the platform's tiled wall a few feet away. There, I gazed at the yellow-lettered W
AY
O
UT
sign without comprehension. For the moment, I was nothing but nerve endings, alive with panic.

The disembarking passengers pushed outward. The newly boarding passengers—including the journalists—surged forward.

I pushed away. “I've got to get on that train.”

It felt critical that I do so. The strap of my crossbody bag inexplicably waylaid me. Impatiently, I yanked at it with my shaky fingers, trying to get free. Confounded by its twists and turns, I followed its length to the person who'd rescued me.

Danny. Of course.

“You're going to have to catch the next one,” he said, finally relinquishing my bag's strap. His palm was scraped raw.

The look in his eyes was inexplicable to me. So were the standard directional signs, the bright adverts, the people . . .

I was a mess. “You finally saved me,” I wheezed. “On time!”

If I haven't told you, Danny is a chronic latecomer. He's prone to arriving an hour late for . . . everything. Also, I realized numbly,
now
I understood his expression. He looked . . . wounded.

“Yeah,” he said drily. “It took me a couple of seconds to realize what was happening and react. Sorry about the delay.”

I'd meant that he hadn't been there for some dangerous incidents in the past, not
this
one. I was already sorry I'd blurted out that observation, too. But Danny didn't address my growing remorse, even though I knew he must have sensed it.

With his eyes smoky, he adjusted my bag's strap so it lay where it was meant to, snugly across my chest and shoulder.

Hazily, I caught on. “You rescued me
. . . with my bag?
”

He nodded. “It was all I could reach. At first.”

Dazedly, I stared down at it. “Good job, bag.” Shakily, I patted it, thankful for its near-constant presence in my life. “This is the same bag Travis surprised me with as a gift in Portland,” I reminded Danny, dizzy with relief. “I'll have to tell him he rescued me from being smashed by a Tube train.”

Danny's lips tightened. “Yeah. You tell Harvard that.”

He gave me another evaluative look, then turned away.

I had to follow him.
Thank him.

“Wait!” I yelled. “What are you—”
Doing here?
“Whoa.”

Unable to finish, I stopped with my hand to my head. I felt awash with vertigo. My knees threatened to buckle again. I sagged against the nearest wall as exasperated commuters coursed past, caring only that I was between them and the next train.

I'd almost been killed.
The stark reality of it scared me.

What was I doing, messing around with murder? This wasn't what normal people did. I needed to stick to chocolate. Period.

Danny's big-booted feet entered my downcast field of vision. He put his hand on my arm. “Let's get you out of here.”

“I can't. I'm supposed to be—” I broke off, uncertain what to say next.
Headed to the police station?
There had to be many of them in London. I wasn't sure which one the reporters had gone to. I looked at Danny. “Nicola confessed.”

He arched his brows. “The one with the skeevy book?”

I nodded, still feeling nauseated. I didn't want to be sick in an Underground station, but any movement seemed to make things worse. My knees still felt unsteady, my hands shaky.

Helpless for the moment, I looked up at Danny.

Something passed between us. Something tender. I knew, when the chips were down, that Danny cared about me. But
this
was—

“Ahem.” The sound of a man deliberately and loudly clearing his throat broke into my thoughts. “Terribly sorry, but is this yours? I saw you go down back there and managed to grab it.”

My phone.
I took it from the stranger's hand and clasped it in my own, stupidly grateful to have it. “Thank you so much.”

At the familiar feel of my phone in my hand, I felt my throat close. My eyes filled with uncontrollable tears. Uh-oh.

Saved from death?
Fine.
Reunited with phone?
Waterworks.

This had obviously affected me more than I wanted to admit.

The good Samaritan glanced anxiously from me to Danny and back again. He leaned in. “Are you quite all right? Do you need anything? Anything at all? Can I call a member of staff?”

“No, no thank you.” I dashed my tears, feeling dopey and embarrassed. “I'm fine, honestly. Just a little overwhelmed.”

He hesitated. “Are you utterly sure? It's no trouble.”

Danny put his arm around me. “She said she's fine.”

My phone's rescuer nodded. “All right then. Be careful!”

He strode away, wearing a trench coat and carrying a brown laptop bag. Almost instantly, he was swallowed up by the crowd.

The way he disappeared made me bawl a little harder.

Danny saw. He hugged me closer against his broad, strong chest, then gave me an unmistakable “cheer up” squeeze. “It's all fun and games until someone almost gets killed, right?”

This time, I laughed through my tears. I had to get a grip.

“What are you even doing here?” I asked my security expert.

“I said I'd be there when you were working out with Liam.”

“Yeah, but I didn't see you.”

Danny gave me a long look. “You weren't supposed to.”

His sardonic tone smoothed away some of my weepiness. His earlier hurt feelings seemed to have mended somewhat, but that didn't let me off the hook for what I'd said. Feeling sorry about that all over again, I looked up. “I'm sorry, Danny. About what I said before, about you ‘finally' saving me. I didn't—”

“Don't worry about it.” He let me go. “It's all good.”

“But it's not all good! I hurt your feelings.”

“I deserved it.” Danny obviously didn't intend to admit having anything as mushy as feelings. “I'd followed you to the platform, but then I got separated from you in the crowd. I'd just managed to reach you when I saw you start falling.”

I shuddered at the memory. “One second I was fine, just looking at the train coming down the tunnel, and the next—”

“I grabbed your bag, but it almost wasn't enough.”

That effort had cost him, too. “How's your hand?”

Danny hid its abraded surface inside his fist. “Fine.”

I didn't believe him. I unfolded his fist and looked. “You're bleeding! We should get this looked at right away.”

He pulled away. “I've had worse.” His concerned gaze roamed over me, just as intensely as it had before. “How are you?”

“Anxious to get to the police station.” Tentatively, I pushed away from the wall, then stood on my own. I still felt wobbly, but I could walk. I couldn't help grinning at my own tottering steps. “You wouldn't believe how a near-death experience messes with your ability to do the little things, like walk and think,” I cracked, fighting an urge to grab Danny for support.

He stuck close to me anyway, just in case. “You know,” he mused, “I think my hand does need medical attention.”

His disingenuous tone hit me like a record scratch. That wasn't the way my old pal usually talked to me. Then I got it.

“I'm going to see Nicola,” I warned, realizing he didn't really want medical care. He wanted to save me. All over again. From
. . . everything
. “I have to. After all the effort I've expended trying to track down Jeremy's killer? After all we've both done?” I went for drama. “After I nearly got killed?”

“That's all the more reason you shouldn't go.”

I frowned. “Someone just bumped me, that's all.” I hoped.

“Someone could have pushed you,” Danny maintained darkly. “The platform was crowded. No one would have seen. They would have melted into the crowd right afterward. They could have slipped into another tunnel or even gotten on the next train.”

I envisioned someone pushing me to my (almost certain) death, then blithely boarding a Tube train to Westminster.

It was too absurd. “Nobody wants to
kill
me.”

Danny's face disagreed. “It wouldn't be the first time.”

He was referring to the other times I'd been hurt on my unofficial, nonchocolate-whispering murder investigations. In hindsight, they seemed ludicrous. At the time? Critically important and perfectly reasonable, under the circumstances.

“All right. Let's say someone
did
push me on purpose.”