Vivian glanced at Leo and was surprised by the shy grin on his face. “What do you think?” he asked. “It’s small, I know, but…”
“It looks like a happy place to live,” she said.
“A happy place to live,” he repeated, sounding pleased. “I guess that’s what I wanted. It’s the first time I’ve ever bothered to have a home since I moved out of my folks’ place.”
“You didn’t have a home in Chicago?” Vivian asked in surprise, dropping her shoes carelessly on the floor, though she kept her coat on as she went to snuggle into the sofa.
“I had a place I slept,” he said, shrugging, before going to turn up the gas on the radiator. “Not quite the same thing.”
“No,” Vivian agreed, tucking her feet under her. “Did you know anyone interesting in Chicago? Any good stories to tell?”
He shook his head, his expression serious as he crossed to the wardrobe to hang up his coat. “I’d rather make sure you like me a little more before I start telling Chicago stories.”
“Oh?” Vivian leaned forward, the buzz of the drink they had shared in the theater still making her feel reckless. “Were your pals there so rough you’re afraid you’ll scare me off?”
“Given the way you tore into me the other day?” Leo paused to give her a pointed look.
Vivian looked away. Maybe she hadn’t been fair to him when he came by, but she had been so shaken up. And for all Florence thought drinking and dancing was a one-way ticket to a life of crime, Vivian hadn’t been faced with any of the seedier parts of New York’s underground world. Not until she stumbled on Willard Wilson’s body.
She had good reason to feel jumpy these days. But she liked Leo—liked his big hands and the way his hair fell over his forehead and how he looked at her like she was the only person in the room. She wanted him to like her too.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said.
To her surprise, he shook his head. “You don’t need to be,” he said. “You were scared. It’s not a bad thing to be wary of strange men.”
“So you’re saying I should be wary of you?”
“You should be wary of everyone you meet at a place like the Nightingale, Viv,” he said, pushing his unruly hair out of his eyes. “It’s not your job to trust me right away, it’s my job to show that you can. Which I have, right?”
“You’re pretty sure of yourself,” Vivian said, getting comfortable on the couch as she unbuttoned her coat.
“You’re here, aren’t you?” He grinned before turning back to the wardrobe to retrieve a couple bottles of booze.
“That’s not much of a hiding place,” Vivian pointed out.
“They’re hidden from my landlady, not the police,” Leo said, tossing one in the air with a flourish before catching it again. Vivian rolled her eyes, and he laughed as he crossed to the kitchen to retrieve two glasses. “It takes considerably less effort to fool her than the coppers.”
“You know much about hiding things from the police, then?”
He paused in the middle of uncapping the bottles, though he didn’t turn around. “A thing or two,” he said at last.
“What sort of work did you do there?”
He turned back toward her, the drinks only half mixed, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “The not-always-legal kind.”
“And now? What do you do for your uncle?”
“Well, I’m still no upstanding officer of the law,” he said with a smile. “But I’m not worried about them banging down my door anymore.”
Vivian snorted. “They’re not all that upstanding since Prohibition.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” He turned back to finish making their drinks. “Why do you want to know about Chicago, Viv?”
She wished she could see more than his back as she answered. “I want to know who you are,” she said quietly. She had noticed—though she let it go for now—that he hadn’t actually told her what kind of work he was doing for his uncle.
“I can’t say I know much about you either,” he pointed out.
Vivian nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. Not knowing what to say—and not sure that he actually wanted an answer—she turned to look around the room again, and as she did the stack of newspapers at the other end of the sofa caught her eye. The top one was folded open, and Wilson’s now-familiar face smiled out at her from beneath a jauntily tilted fedora. She leaned forward to grab the paper from the pile. As soon as she had moved it, she discovered that the one below it was also open to an article in the society pages about Wilson—and the one below that was about Hattie and her sister.
