The Mystery of the Third Lucretia by Susan Runholt Page B

hadn’t written much since the whole thing with Gallery Guy had started the week before, so getting it all down, including my feelings about Bert dying, was going to take hours.
    Lucas never seems to write as much as I do, and after about the first half hour I noticed that she was drawing on the journal pages. She did more sketches of Gallery Guy, and a big drawing of the hands with the intertwined fingers in the middle of Gallery Guy’s canvas.
    A little after noon, Mom gave us some money and asked us to walk a few blocks down a big street called King’s Road to this little sandwich-and-salad takeout place called Pret a Manger to get us all some lunch.
    The last thing Mom said before we left was, “It’s busy around here, so be extra careful of the traffic.”
    Lucas and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes. We’d been walking around London for days in places a lot busier than Sloane Square and nothing had happened yet. We’d gotten good at it.
    We found the place, no problem, and got our food.
    â€œI’m hungry,” I said when we were back outside and I was stuffing the drinks on top of the hoodie in Lucas’s backpack.
    â€œMe, too. Let’s get going.”
    We took off at a trot. There was traffic up and down King’s Road, but not anywhere near as bad as around Trafalgar Square.
    Halfway down the first block a little kid got loose from his mom and ran straight into my legs. By the time his mother got hold of him again, Lucas was way ahead of me, just about to cross a quiet side street with no traffic lights.
    She was running the last few steps to the corner when I noticed the car coming up beside me on King’s Road—driving on the left-hand side of the road, of course, like they do in London. It was black and long and low and shiny. It wasn’t slowing down and didn’t have its blinker on. It was just another car in London traffic.
    Then, at the very last minute, it speeded up and was suddenly turning left into the street Lucas was just going to cross.
    I saw her, still trotting, turn her head the other way, to make sure no one was coming on the side street, then step off the curb and onto the pavement.
    The car revved its engine as it roared around the corner, tires squealing. One more second—maybe half a second, maybe less—and the little silver jaguar on the hood of the car would be aimed directly at Lucas.
    â€œLUUUCAAAS!” I screamed from way down in my throat, the loudest I’ve ever screamed in my life. I was sure I was too late. I was sure she’d be smashed, thrown to the pavement, run over.
    She heard me just in time. Her head snapped to the right. She saw the car. I know this can’t be true—she must have touched ground somewhere in there—but it seemed like she actually stopped and reversed in midair. I watched as she flew backward, saw the heel of her shoe hit the curb as she went down, falling, falling—but onto the sidewalk, not into the street.
    She landed hard smack on her butt. Beyond her the black car sped away, tires still squealing.
    Then it was quiet, and Lucas was sitting there. Somehow her backpack had slipped off her shoulders, the straps now around her elbows, and she was sitting on it.
    I dropped to my knees next to her. “Are you okay?”
    She grunted.
    A youngish guy with supershort hair ran toward us from across the little street.
    â€œAre you hurt?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” Lucas said. “At least I don’t think so.”
    â€œAny painful bits?” he asked.
    â€œJust . . . the part I sit on.”
    He held out his hand and helped Lucas struggle to her feet. She took a few wobbly steps.
    â€œWould have been worse without the rucksack,” the guy said. I figured that must be the British word for backpack.
    I looked down. Lucas had landed on the hoodie, but she must have gotten a couple of the plastic bottles, too. I could see orange juice oozing out