The footsteps move on. Fade.
I let out a slow breath. Christ almighty. Work faster.
I drag him ’cross the floor, fixing to get ’em close to the settee shoved against the far wall, burgundy velvet cushions faded, a drapery hanging loose over the window behind. Better than leaving him there than sprawled like a gutted hog.
“Come on, you rat bastard,” I mutter.
I wrestle him down the gap between the settee and the wall, shoulder jammed to keep him from sliding back out. I curse and shove harder till he disappears into shadow. The velvet drapery hangs heavy, thick as a horse blanket. I yank it down from the rod, fling it over the heap he makes. A dark bundle now. Maybe a steward’ll think it’s extra bedding, maybe they won’t look twice.
I wipe my palms on my trousers, strain to hear. Only the creak of the ship now. Rush of wind. One last look—just a heap of shadows in the corner. Passable.
My pulse beats in my ears as I ease the door open, peeking out. I near choke. Breakfast’s letting out, and the passage floods with ladies in lace, gents in fine coats, children darting between skirts. Laughter, chatter. Too many eyes. I draw back a fraction, keeping my hand on the knob, fighting the urge to slam the door shut. That’d be worse. Louder, drawing attention.
A pair of women stop close by, fussing with their shawls, blocking the way like a barricade.
Now.
I slip out, force my face blank, steady my breath. Just another passenger, nothing out of sorts. Slipping into the tide, I let the crowd swallow me.
“Mr. Byron!”
Shit.I recognize Mrs. Taft’s voice as it cuts through the crowd, shrill as a bell. I turn, teeth hard together, praying my face don’t show a damn thing. She’s waving a silly lace handkerchief, her husband lumbering behind her like a horse in a waistcoat.
“There you are,” she trills, hurriedly weaving through the other first-class passengers. “Why, your wife told us you were ill.”
“Feeling better by the hour,” I say. My voice don’t shake, thank Christ.
Mrs. Taft beams, reaching for my arm. “Then you’ll join us for a stroll on deck? The sun is glorious.” Her gloved hand hovers close. Too close. I swear the stench of that Pinkerton’s gore hangs on my sleeve.
Behind her, Mr. Taft booms, “Come on, man, a little air will do you good.”
Every second I linger is a noose drawing tighter. The Pinkerton’s lying cold just yards away, and these two stand here, wanting me to walk polite into daylight.
Suppose it don’t hurt to blend in with ordinary folks right about now.
Mrs. Taft latches onto my arm before I can sidestep, silk glove cool on my sleeve. The patch of blood under the cloth, tacky even now, sticks to my arm against her pressure. If she squeezes harder—Christ.
“The sea is so calm today,” she says, steering me toward the companionway. “You’d never guess we were moving at all.”
Mr. Taft chimes in at my other side. “That’s the mark of a fine vessel. I heard the captain say we have made excellent time and should be in Galveston in just a few hours.”
Good. That’s good. We can survive a few hours.
We step out onto the deck, sunlight sharp, air heavy with damp. The horizon stretches clean and endless. Mrs. Taft chatters on, pointing out gulls, sails, the sparkle of the water. Her perfume curls sweet around me, covering the scent of the kill. She leans closer, patting my arm.
“And how is your dear wife faring? She seemed well at breakfast.”
“She is. Much better, I think.”
Mr. Taft claps me on the back. “Fine woman, your wife. A good match for a strong fellow like you. Pennington said as much himself yesterday.”
My gut lurches, but I school my face blank. “Pennington?”
“Detective fellow,” Taft says. “Sharp as a tack. I dare say he’s the sort of man who notices everything.”
Bet he ain’t seen Alice coming, I think, and damn near crack a smile.
Mrs. Taft fans herself with a giggle. “Why, Mr. Byron, you must have met him.”
