“I hadn’t even had time to take off my pearls,” Lucy said through clenched teeth. “I ran out, and the front door was open. And no, there wasn’t a knock. There wasn’t time for one, and Camille wasn’t anywhere near the door when I came out and saw her…saw her…”
Lucy’s face turned white, and she looked hastily away. Alistair winced. He knew what it was like to see things you’d never forget, no matter how badly you might want to. “I’m sorry.”
She wiped her eyes. “Just don’t get over-confident, Ross. Unless you want to be next.”
Brown deliberately moved his chair so his back was to her. “Listen, Gatti, you’re looking for a new supplier, am I right? My crew operates real close to your place. Just say the word, and we can make a deal.”
So Brown was bringing booze in via Towertown. Was he swimming it in from the lake somehow? The municipal pier was awfully close, but maybe he’d paid off the right people and it wasn’t as much of a risk as it sounded.
Alistair didn’t ask for details—the less he knew the better. “The real McCoy?”
“Straight from Canada.”
A group of seals or other strong underwater swimmers could probably haul booze from Canada, across Lake Huron, and through the Straits of Mackinac and into Lake Michigan. The prohees might have their own familiars on the lookout, but the lakes were big and seals could dive deep or swim under ice. It made sense they’d bring the pure stuff in, then cut it once back on land.
“I tell you what,” he said. “Come by The Pride, have a cocktail on our dime, and talk to Wanda about it. If she likes your price, then we’re in business.”
Brown lifted his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
Sam had seldom been so grateful to see his own front door as he was at the end of that day. Luke had continued in a bad mood, arguing that it was a waste of his talents to do something so mundane as copy out the symbols on the hex and decipher the ones they could, while Glenda and Sam took photos. It was easier to give in and let Luke position the disc while Glenda snapped photos, though Glenda was forced to correct him every few minutes because his thumb ended up blocking some of the symbols, or he’d tilted it in such a way the lighting was too bad to make anything out.
It had been a relief to lock the disc back up in the safe and turn out the lights. He wanted to get inside the house, draw a bath, and relax in hot water up to his neck to relieve some of the stress. If Alistair was home already, so much the better.
He wasn’t, judging by the fact the mail was still in the box on the porch. Sam tucked the letters under his arm while he let himself into the quiet house. After taking off his coat and hat, he started to sort the mail on the small table by the door.
Bill, bill, flyer for a new club, and a letter addressed to him.
In his sister’s handwriting.
An electrical shock seemed to run through him, rooting him to the ground. He stared at the letter as though it had ambushed him.
He’d never expected to hear from his family again, after he failed to save Mom. “Once a failure, always a failure,” had been the last words he thought he’d ever hear from Dad, from any of them.
Was Dad dead, too?
Hands shaking, he tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter.
My dear brother Sammy,
You need to come home. Things haven’t been the same since Mom passed away.
Aunt Flora and Uncle Gabe moved in with us. They said it was to help out, but they don’t actually do anything. Well, they did buy a new car, and a fur coat, and Aunt Flora has a new dress every Sunday for church.
I’m working my fingers to the bone. I need help. If you have any love in your heart for your poor sister, you’ll come back to us.
Your loving sister,
Opal
A hollow void replaced Sam’s chest. His sister had never spoken to him with such affection. And he did love her, of course he did, she was his only surviving sibling…
Was he a bad person if he stayed in Chicago?
He went into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and sat at his desk. The letter went into one of the drawers, he didn’t even bother to care which, just so long as it was out of his sight.
It didn’t help. What if Opal really did need him? Did Dad know she’d written? If he went to see her, would he even be allowed in the house?
As for Aunt Flora and Uncle Gabe, it seemed likely they were spending the money they’d gotten for this very house. That was fine; it wasn’t up to him what they did with it. And he’d been sending money back to Dad every month, even though he knew it would never make up for his failure. It was the least he could do.
