She let out a breath. She recognized that voice.
She opened the door slowly.
“Mr. Parker,” she said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
The rain was streaming down his face, running off his coat. His shirt was plastered against his chest. He held a large object beneath his right arm, shielded by some sort of tarp.
He handed it to her, using both hands, and it was surprisingly heavy.
“Careful,” he said. Her hand brushed his as she took the bundle from him. The cold, wet touch of him sent a shiver down her, in the best possible way. “I bought a little something for my aunt,” he said. “Maybe you could use it too. While you’re here.”
She looked at him from the doorway, where she was wrapped in a warm blanket, her hair tousled and her face flushed.
He seemed to be trying to keep his eyes fixed on her face, or the space next to her head by the door. His wet clothes moved against him with every breath.
There are rules, Frannie’s voice said in her ear. Social rules. Rules of decency.
And she had already broken so many of them.
“You’re going to catch your death,” she said, looking at the sheets of rain behind him. She hesitated. “Do you wish to come in? You could get warm for just a minute.”
“What I wish is irrelevant. Warmth hardly seems like a fair exchange for destroying your reputation,” he said.
“We both know there’s not much left of it to save,” she said.
“I beg to differ,” he countered, with an unexpected ferocity. He bowed to her, the rain streaming from his hat down his strong nose, his sculpted cheekbones. “Good night, Miss Covington.”
She swallowed, nodding, and he raised his hand to keep his hat on and began striding through the dark streets.
She closed the door behind him and locked it.
Then she padded to the middle of the floor and gently set the package down.
She pulled the cover off, the raindrops dripping in rivulets onto her bare feet.
She gasped, grinning in shock.
It was a typewriter.
She slid down and ran her fingers along the keys, excitement stirring within her. Her very own typewriter to use.
Because she was alone, Grace let out a delighted squeal.
She moved the typewriter to the desk and found fresh sheets of paper, feeding one into the roller. Then, drawing the blanket around her amid the low-burning candles, she began to type the words she hoped might save her cousins.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MAY 9, 1904
Six Days After the Murder
GRACE STAYED UPlate into the night writing the draft of her article, falling asleep just as the morning began trickling through the gaps of the curtains.
When she woke, there was ink on her cheek.
She scrubbed it in the sink until her skin was rosy but clean, and got dressed. She tucked her small notebook into her waistband along with the draft of her article, ignored the gnawing hunger in her stomach, and tied on her hat.
Then she strode down the street toward the fairgrounds to meet Lillie.
