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“Isn’t it gruesome?” She flips open a folder to show me paintings and illustrations depicting the antics of the killer prostitutes. “So my vibe.”
I don’t have anything quite so bloody, but when it’s my turn to present, I try to paint a picture for my professor. Of a family a hairbreadth from the throne struck by tragedy, mystery, and scandal. An epic downfall of the rich and famous. And of a woman in a discarded portrait.
“There’s no shortage of contemporary sources regarding the modern Tulleys,” Langford says, considering my proposal.
I nod in agreement. The divorces, drug addicts, and assorted scandals are well-known tabloid fodder, I’ve discovered.
“Less so for the early twentieth century,” she adds.
I project one of my photos of the painting for the class. As expected, no one has the slightest idea who she might be.
“She would have been important to have been painted by Dyce,” muses the professor. “If you can authenticate the painting is indeed one of his.”
Shit.
The possibility of a fake hadn’t even occurred to me. I’m not sure if that would make my project more or less interesting. Still, the professor approves my proposal, and I know I’m in good shape regardless of whether I solve the mystery of the painting. Based on the several avenues for research—the missing Tulley, the drowned Tulley, and the family’s fall from grace—something is bound to be worth writing about.
I think about it all day, spending my evening at the Talbot Library trying to track down as many books as possible that mention the Tulley clan. Not even the library warden can bring down my spirits. Mr. Baxley and I are old friends now. As in I chat his ear off and he stares back stone-faced. It’s less a give-and-take friendship than a give-and-glare. He’ll come around.
When I waltz through the door of the flat later, it’s past eight o’clock and my stomach is growling with accusation. I always forget to eat when I’m at the library.
“Abbey! Babe! Get in here now!”
Lee’s urgent declaration has me racing into the living room, only to skid to a stop at the sight of him. He’s sprawled on the couch, a glass of red wine in one hand and a shoulder-length platinum blond wig on his head.
“Fancy,” I tease. “What’s the occasion?”
He hops into a standing position, his movements as graceful as those of his ballerina sister. “Where have you been? I’ve been sitting here in dire need of emotional support with nary a housemate in sight!”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Lee is melodramatic on a good day. Tonight it’s next level.
“What happened?”
“Another George bites the dust.”
Lee chugs half his glass, then sets it down on the coffee table and picks up the bottle of merlot. Next to the bottle are three empty wineglasses, which tells me he wasn’t kidding about sitting around waiting for one or all of us to come home.
He quickly pours a full glass and hands it to me. “Drink.”
“I haven’t even eaten dinn— ”
“Drink!”
Like a dutiful friend, I take a sip. “All right. So this is about New George?”
“Old George now. I broke it off. He was far too clingy.” Lee drains the remainder of his glass and pours himself another.
“Is it really considered breaking up if you’ve been dating less than two weeks?”
“One would think,” he huffs. “I sent a very lovely text telling him I didn’t see things going anywhere, and this bloke wouldn’t accept it! He showed up at my bio class today and ambushed me.” Lee’s eyes widen in horror. “Can you believe that? The nerve of this entitled boy! Forcing me to end things in person!”
My laughter spills out. “Oh, you poor thing.” I reach out to pat him on the arm.
Although, in Lee’s defense, demanding an in-person breakup from some random guy you met on a dating app and went out with a few times? That’s bold, George.
“I’m emotionally exhausted,” Lee announces, heaving a dramatic breath. “I stopped by the off-licence for several bottles of very bad merlot, made us a breakup playlist, and brought down my wigs. Shall we begin?”
And that’s why, when Jack and Jamie stumble in from the pub a couple hours later, Lee and I are wearing matching pink wigs and dancing to Blondie’s “Call Me” while singing along off-key and far too loud.
