The Madness Underneath: Book 2 (THE SHADES OF LONDON) Read Online Free PDF Page A

buddy” at Wexford. But since I’d been gone, we had become something much more. I still couldn’t talk to him the way I needed to talk to someone, but it was nice that I had someone in theory. An imaginary boyfriend I never saw. Wewere planning to see each other over the Christmas break in a few weeks, probably only for a day, but still. It was something.
    “Hey, disgusting,” he said.
    Jerome and I had developed a code for expressing whatever it was we felt for each other. Instead of saying “I like you” or whatever mush expresses that sentiment, we had started saying mildly insulting things. Our entire correspondence was a string of heartfelt insults.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing,” I said quickly. “Nothing.”
    “You sound funny.”
    “You look funny,” I replied.
    I could hear Wexford noises in the background. Not that Wexford noises were so particular. It was just noise. People. Voices. Guys’ voices.
    He was talking quickly, telling me a story about some guy in his building who’d been busted for claiming to have an interview at a university, but actually he went off to see his girlfriend in Spain, and how someone had ratted him out to Jerome, and Jerome had the unwelcome task of reporting him. Or something.
    I was only half listening. I rubbed at my legs and stared at the images of Goodwin’s Court. I hadn’t shaved in three weeks, so that was quite a situation I had going. For the first few days, I hadn’t been able to bend over completely or get the injured area wet, so I couldn’t shave. The hairs sprouted, and they were kind of cute. So I just let them go to see what would happen, and what had happened was that I had a fine web of delicate hair all over my legs that I could ruffle while I watched television, like some people absently pet their cats. I was my very own fuzzy pet.
    The grainy picture told me nothing.
    “Hello?” Jerome said.
    “I’m listening,” I lied. I guess the story had finished.
    “I have to go,” he said. “You’re disgusting. I want you to know that.”
    “I heard they named a mold after you,” I replied. “Poor mold.”
    “Vile.”
    “Gross.”
    After I hung up, I pulled the computer closer to stare at the image. I moved the view up and down the row of tiny, dark houses with their expensive gaslights and security system warning signs. Up and down. And then I saw something. There was a tiny plaque on the outside of one of the houses, right above the buzzer. That plaque. I knew it. That was their building. There was some kind of a small company downstairs, a graphic designer or photographer or something like that. The print was impossible to make out in the photo, but it began with a Z. I knew that much. Zoomba, Zoo…Zo…something.
    It was a start, enough to search the Internet. I tried every combination I could with Z and design and art and photography and graphic design. It took a while, but I eventually hit it. Zuoko. Zuoko Graphics. With a phone number. I pulled up the address in maps, and sure enough, it was the same building.
    Now all I had to do was call and ask them…something. Get them to go upstairs. Leave a note. I would say it was an emergency and that they needed to call Rory, and I would leave my number. So simple, so clever.
    So I called, and Zuoko Graphics answered. Well, some woman did. Not the entire agency.
    “Hi,” I said. “I’m trying to reach someone else in this building. It’s kind of an emergency. Sorry to bug you. But there are some guys? Who live upstairs? From you?”
    “Two guys, right?” the woman said. “About nineteen or twenty?”
    “That’s them,” I said.
    “They moved out, about a week and a half ago.”
    “Oh…”
    “You said it’s an emergency? Do you have another way of reaching them, or—”
    “It’s okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
    So that was that. I struck that off the list. They’d moved out. Because of me? Because I knew where they lived? Maybe they were really cleaning up their tracks so