There was a red car, and I heard the doors unlock when Stephen pointed the remote at it.
“That’s not a police car,” I said, pointing out the obvious.
“It’s an unmarked vehicle. Get in.”
“Where are we going?”
“Let me explain inside the car.”
There was a figure sitting in the front passenger seat. I recognized the head of white hair at once, and the altogether too young face that went with it. It was Mr. Thorpe, the government official who’d come to visit me in the hospital. The one who told me I was never allowed to say anything.
“What’s he—”
“It’s all right,” Stephen said, opening the back door for me. “Get inside.”
Stephen held the door open until I acquiesced.
“Aurora,” Mr. Thorpe said, turning around. “Good to see you. Sorry to pull you out in the middle of the night like this.”
“What are we doing?” I asked.
“We need to talk.”
Stephen started up the car.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Do you enjoy being back?” Thorpe asked.
Thorpe didn’t exactly seem like the kind of person who cared whether or not I was adjusting well to my circumstances, and Stephen was suddenly very focused on his driving.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I just got here. As I guess you know.”
“We do.”
“Why do I feel like my being back has something to do with you?”
“It does have something to do with us,” he said. “But I hope that you’re happy about it.”
“Where are we going?”
“We’re just going to take a short ride,” Thorpe said. “Nothing to be worried about.”
Stephen looked at me through the rearview mirror and gave me a reassuring nod. I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered. He turned up the heat.
The first few turns, I knew basically where we were—in the Wexford neighborhood, going south. Then we were lost in a warren of tight little streets for a few moments, reemerging near King William Street, where the old squad headquarters was, where we’d faced down the Ripper. We turned off that quickly enough and were on a road that ran along the Thames Embankment. We were definitely heading west. West was the way to central London. The black cabs got more numerous, the path along the Thames thicker with trees and impressive buildings, the lights on the opposite bank shinier. I caught sight of the London Eye, glowing brightly in the dark, then we were going right, into the very heart of London.
We pulled up into the circular drive of what I first thought was a hotel. It was a moment before I noticed the sign for the Tube, the distinctive red circle with the blue bar across it. We were at Charing Cross station. Stephen pulled the car up right in front of the doors. Thorpe got out at once, and Stephen released me from the back.
“Come in,” Thorpe called. “This way. Come inside.”
There was a female police officer standing by one of the front doors. She pushed it open as we approached. She moved fast, like she’d been waiting for us and her most important job of the night was to open that door.
Charing Cross was a large central hub for both trains and subways. It had a large central area full of shops and ticket counters, with a glass roof crisscrossed with metal latticework. A woman in a black suit waited for us in the middle of the concourse.
“The CCTV is off?” Thorpe asked her quietly.
The woman nodded.
“Stay in the control room. No one comes down.”
I gave Stephen a what-the-hell-is-this look, and he responded with a it’s-fine-no-really-it’s-fine stare.
“We’re just going to go down to the platforms,” Thorpe said. “This way.”
He began walking toward the opening marked UNDERGROUND. We followed him down the steps. Gates had been opened, allowing us to proceed. Charing Cross Tube station was a somewhat grim place, with brown tiles on the floor and tiled walls done in variations of brown; the ticket machine walls were an alarming electric lime green. The escalators were shut off, so we had to walk down to the platforms, Stephen in front of me and Thorpe just behind. It was unnerving to be in a Tube station after hours. There was no body heat from the thousands of people who usually rushed around, no sound of musicians playing or talking or laughing or trains roaring along. Every one of our footsteps on the slated metal steps was clearly audible as we descended.
“Bakerloo?” Thorpe asked.
Stephen nodded.
I looked up at the sign, with the brown lettering that indicated the Bakerloo line. The Bakerloo line at Charing Cross . . . that meant something to me. But it wasn’t until we got down to the platform that the significance became clear.
“Do you see someone?” Thorpe asked me.
At the far end of the platform was a woman. Her hair was a silver-blond, swept back in heavy wings. She wore a black cowl-neck sweater and a gray skirt—ordinary enough clothes. I think the shoes told me she was from a different era. They were just a bit too chunky, too platform. She stood right at the edge of the platform, her gaze fixed on the opposite wall. The last time I’d spoken to this woman, all she could say was “I jumped” over and over in a brittle whisper. She was vulnerable and pale and, frankly, depressing to be around. Just getting near her made my spirits sink.
“The woman,” I said, glancing at Stephen. “I’ve met her before.”
Thorpe nodded to Stephen, who gently cleared his throat.
“Let’s go and talk to her,” Stephen said.
“Why?” I whispered. “What are we doing here?”
“Something important, I promise. I wouldn’t have brought you here otherwise. I just need you to talk to this woman.”
I looked down the length of the empty platform, where the woman stood by the gaping maw of the silent tunnel. She had turned toward us, expectant. Stephen started to walk toward her, slowly, allowing me to follow. The woman could do me no harm—I knew that. I wasn’t frightened of her. It was more that she was so obviously sad—beyond sad, to some terrible point of existence. She was a palette of grays, and I didn’t want to get anywhere near her.
“It’s you,” she said when we reached her.
“Yes,” Stephen replied. “I was here a few days ago.”
“You came back. You brought her.”
“I did, yes. Rory, this is Diane.”
“Hello,”
