My fork slips against the china, the scrape far too loud in my ears. I school my face into a polite smile, though my pulse is a drumbeat in my throat.
Pennington inclines his head. “Yes. Hard to miss a man like him on a vessel like this.” He leans back in his chair. “What line of business is he in, Mrs. Byron?”
The room seems to hush around me. Every path feels dangerous—too plain, too evasive. My palms sweat against the napkin in my lap.
“He manages accounts,” I say. “Trade matters. Boring things, I fear.”
Mr. Taft chuckles. “Ah, numbers. Not so boring when fortunes are at stake.”
I set the cup down. “And you, Mr. Pennington? You must forgive me; I’ve done all the talking. What brings a detective aboard this ship?”
His eyes narrow a fraction, though his smile holds. “My business is varied. Merchants. Banks. Rail men.”
“You must travel constantly. Do you have family aboard, or are you alone in your work?”
His pause is slight, but I catch it. “Why do you ask? Do I seem in need of company?”
Mr. and Mrs. Taft laugh, delighted, but my stomach knots. He hasn’t answered at all. Only reminded me that he sees through me.
I fold my napkin in my lap, unfold it, fold it again, fighting to steady my hands. “Forgive me,” I say with a small laugh, feigned and fragile. “I suppose I was only making conversation.”
“Of course. Idle talk helps the voyage along,” he says. His spoon taps once against the rim of his cup. A delicate sound,though it makes me flinch. “And what does Mr. Byron call his business? You say he manages accounts. With which firm?”
The air drains from my lungs. “With several. He is…independent.”
“Ah,” Pennington says softly, as though the answer amuses him. “Independent. Then he must be quite capable with numbers. I wonder, did he study for it? At a university perhaps?”
“No. His father instructed him.”
“Indeed?” His eyes sharpen.
The room sways, the chatter of the dining hall fading to a dull roar. I want to flee, but Mrs. Taft’s hand rests lightly on my arm, pinning me in place as surely as a shackle.
She dabs her lips with her napkin. “Mr. Pennington, you do ask the most questions. Like a true detective at his work, never content until every fact is laid bare.”
Mr. Taft joins her with a genial chuckle. “Yes, sir, one might think you were interrogating the poor lady.”
Pennington’s smile doesn’t waver. He turns his cup slowly between his fingers. “One never knows who they may meet, Mr. Taft. Or what small detail might serve to turn over a stone in some larger matter. Every conversation can yield a clue, if one listens closely.” His gaze fixes on me. “For instance, perhaps you recall, Mrs. Byron, a case that made the Ohio papers. A murder and a kidnapping at a roadside inn.”
The room spins. The din of cutlery and laughter fades to nothing. My arms go numb, blood rushing in my ears. He knows. God help me, he knows. Or suspects enough that it will not be long before suspicion becomes certainty.
I manage a smile, brittle and weak. “I’m afraid I do not keep up with such dreadful things.”
“Of course not,” he says softly, as though humoring me. The weight of his stare tells me otherwise.
I lower my head. My plate is blurred, unrecognizable. All I can think is that he will not let us walk free from this ship. Desperate to move, to flee, I force myself calm. A hasty departure would mark me worse than any lie I have told.
Mrs. Taft prattles on about the ship’s arrival, about Galveston’s promenades, about the weather. God bless her chatter for filling the silence I cannot.
But Pennington is steady as a hunter. His cup sits untouched now, his hands folded as he analyzes my every move. My body trembles, and I struggle to steady it. If I stay, I will break. If I leave too suddenly, he will follow. I need a reason.
I dab my lips with the napkin and force a small, apologetic smile. “You must excuse me. The room is rather warm.”
Mrs. Taft squeezes my hand. “Of course, my dear. Do go and rest. I shall send a tray up for your husband.”
“Thank you,” I say. My legs are heavy as lead as I push back my chair. I do not look back, but I feel him rise. The weight of his gaze clings to me like a shadow.
I walk with measured steps toward the door, every muscle screaming to run. The roar of the dining hall fades as I pass through the doors into the open corridor.
