And he doesn’t appear the next day either.
67 Rose Street
Evelyn Snow
Oxford,Present
Zoey and I head into London to meet up with some of her friends the next evening, enjoying the rare bit of late afternoon sunshine as we amble to the train station. It’s a fifty-minute train ride to Paddington Station, and as I sit there, legs crossed, I look at the various men positioned near us on the train. One of them—an older man in a suit—catches my eye. He looks at me for a second too long, so I do what I always do, and stare right back.
Face blank, unsmiling,deadly.
He looks away quickly, and I smile.
When we get to Paddington, we follow the cluster of people through the old, brick station to the tube station across the road. For a Saturday evening, it’s fairly quiet, and as we load onto the tube, Zoey nudges my ribs.
“Look, there they are,” she mumbles. I glance to where she’s looking, and to my surprise, a group of people wearing all black sit together at the end of the car—two women and two men. “It’s a fucking cult, I’m telling you,” she mumbles, pulling her legs into her chest as she sits back in her seat. Her eyes wander from my face to the group, and I follow her gaze. “Where could they possibly be going?”
I watch them—all four of them. Intrigue piques at the base of my skull, and I cock my head. One of the men looks at me. He’s small, mousy, young—probably a freshman. I wait for him to look away, but he doesn’t. If anything, his stare gets harder somehow, more intimidating. Adrenaline rushes through my veins, throbbing in my ears. I turn my head and look at Zoey.
“Let’s follow them.”
She stares at me. “No fucking way. I have no desire to find out where they’re going, or what they’re doing.”
“Okay, fine.” I shrug nonchalantly, but the thought eats at the back of my mind. The train makes a few more stops, and when we start to pull into Blackfriars station, I see the group of four stand. My eyes watch them as they stand next to the door, waiting. I look over at Zoey.
“I said no,” she answers, rolling her eyes. “Besides, this isn’t our stop.”
“Fine,” I repeat. This time my voice has an edge. “But we’ll never know if we don’t follow them. We may never get this chance again.”
She groans and sits up straight. “Aren’t you scared? After what happened to you? Because—look—I’ve seen some shit in my day, too, and I have no desire to find out what they do in their free time,” she snaps, and the train slows.
I swallow. I know I should be scared. I know I should be cowering in the corner, playing it safe, keeping to myself. But I’ve never been like that—especially not after what happened to me.
“No. I’m not scared at all.”
She groans. The train slows further, and I know we only have mere seconds left to make a decision. I stand, holding my hand out.
“Come on. It’s probably some stupid study group or chess club for all we know. But we won’t know until we see for ourselves.”
“You’re crazy.” I see her eye the people, and she sighs again, surrendering and standing. “Fine. Maybe I’m a teeny, tiny bit curious. You owe me. And if we get murdered—”
“You won’t get murdered,” a voice says, and I jump. I twist around. It’s the young guy in all black, and the other three are watching us from across the car. Waiting. Silent. Lurking. “The meeting starts in twenty minutes. 67 Rose Street.”
And then he walks away, leaving Zoey and I standing there—stunned—as the doors open.
The intercom repeats the station name.
“Blackfriars. We have arrived at Blackfriars.”
She glances between me and the tube map above us. We were on our way to meet up with her friends, a few of whom hold staff positions in Parliament. They often meet at The Red Lion, an old, historic pub renowned for its famous past patrons such as Charles Dickens and Winston Churchill. It’s a couple more stops on the tube.
“Now or never,” I say, smiling.
Zoey’s eyes bug out. “You are certifiably insane; do you know that?”
I laugh as we leap out of the car. The doors nearly nip our backs as they close. “I suppose since you’re studying to be a doctor of psychology that you canactuallydiagnose me as insane,” I retort.
You wouldn’t be the first person.
