“Well, who knows.” As Sadie looked up, her expression was almost a smile, pleased and a little surprised, as if she had forgotten what it was like to have someone care whether or not they saw her. “Maybe I’ll be back once they figure out who killed Wilson and things quiet down.”
Vivian’s fingers grew still, and she hesitated, not breathing for a moment before she glanced up to meet Sadie’s eyes. “Did you know him, then?”
Sadie also stilled, and the two women stared at each other for a long, tense moment before Sadie laughed shortly and took a drink of her coffee.
“God, that’s nasty cold,” she said, grimacing. “Yeah, I knew who he was. I recognized him in the club that night.” Taking in Vivian’s wide-eyed look of surprise, she added, “My pop worked for him from time to time. That’s how I know who George and Eddie are, actually. They used to work for him too. Can’t say I was sorry when I heard he was dead.”
“I’ve heard that from a few other people, too,” Vivian said, unsure how much she should say.
“You should believe it, then.”
Sadie was clearly telling something like the truth—the disgust in her voice was real. But she also admitted to knowing the dead man, to seeing him the very night he died.
Vivian hesitated again; then, before she could talk herself out of it, asked, “What sort of work did your father do for him?”
“I don’t want to talk about my father,” Sadie said quietly, only barely meeting Vivian’s eyes before she looked away.
“Look, you said he worked with those men, right? And now they’re trying to get me running scared—”
“My father wasn’t anything like Bruiser George,” Sadie snapped.
“I didn’t mean that he was, I’m just trying to figure out—”
“I think it’s time you were going.” Sadie stood, her chair nearly toppling back with the motion before she caught it. Her voice was sharp as a door slamming shut and just as final. “I’m on nights at the factory this week, I have to get ready for work.”
“I’m sorry,” Vivian said, standing as well, the blanket still clutched awkwardly around her shoulders. “I really appreciate you helping me out down there. I wasn’t trying to—”
“I know. I know, it’s all right.” Sadie pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, then looked up. Her weak smile that was worse than no expression at all was back as she went to untie the rope that lowered the drying rack. “But I don’t know anything else about them. And I really do need to get ready for work, okay?”
“Sure,” Vivian said, gathering up her clothes, which were now warm and damp instead of cold and wet. Shrugging out of the blanket—if there was no one else living there, she didn’t much feel the need for modesty—she dressed quickly, ignoring the damp that still squelched in her shoes, while Sadie gathered the dresses back into a parcel.
Neither of them spoke again until Sadie was showing her to the door. Vivian paused on the threshold, a hand over the doorjamb to stop the other girl from closing it. “I meant it, you know. I hope you find your way back there. Dancing helps, I think, when things are hard.”
In reply, Sadie shrugged, one corner of her mouth lifting in that bitter almost-smile again. “See you around, Vivian Kelly.”
“See you around.”
“And she said her dad had died just a couple months ago, and—get this—she knew his name, because theyworkedtogether.”
“She knew her father’s name?” Bea asked. “Why is that surprising?”
“Not her father’s name, Wilson’s name, and that those two men worked for him. She knew who he was—she even admitted she saw him at the club the night he died. Which means—” Vivian turned toward her friend.
“I told you to hold still,” Bea said, gripping the top of Vivian’s head to turn it gently back around. “There are still a few pieces to pull out.”
Bea’s building was close by, and Vivian had gone straight there after leaving Sadie’s misery-heavy home, knowing that since Bea worked nights she’d be around during the day. Mrs. Henry had answered the door, and her visible shock made Vivian realize what she must look like: her clothes still wet, her hair wild around her head, and—she discovered when Mrs. Henry looked her over—a patch of blood drying on her collar from an ugly abrasion behind one ear.
The motherly concern that poured out of Mrs. Henry made the fear from the alley come rushing back, and Vivian allowed herself to be led, shaking, to the kitchen table. There, Bea ordered her to sit and began cleaning her off, pulling fragments of brick from the tiny cuts and sponging away the muck and blood with a surprisingly gentle touch.
“I also told you not to get involved,” Bea continued, laying down the cloth she had been using and calling out, “Mama, we got any bandages?”
“There’s a tin of those Band-Aids in the kitchen drawer,” Mrs. Henry replied from one of the back rooms.
“I’m not going to be involved anymore,” Vivian said, shivering. “I’ve got something to tell Honor now, and that should be enough.”
Bea looked up from rummaging through the drawer just long enough to give her friend a skeptical look. “You think this Sadie girl had something to do with Wilson?” she asked before returning to her search.
“I think Roy—” Vivian shivered again and had to take a deep breath before she was calm enough to continue. “He’s clearly got a thing for Wilson’s wife. If he recognized me from the Nightingale, and he’s the reason those two toughs came after me, he might have had something to do with Wilson. But Sadie said her dad worked with Wilson, andshe didn’t want to talk about it. That means he was definitely not on the up and up,” Vivian said as Bea came back to the table, tilting her head to one side so that Bea could fix one of the sticky bandages over the deepest part of the cut below her ear. Wincing at the pressure, she continued, “So if it wasn’t Roy who did it, maybe working with Wilson got Mr. Monaldo killed. And Sadie wanted to get revenge.”
