“That’s good,” Bea said, yawning.
Vivian had been thinking about asking Bea to keep her company that night. Then Bea yawned again, reaching up to rub a tight spot in one shoulder. Vivian told the driver to take them to her friend’s building first.
“I almost forgot, this is from Honor,” Bea said, handing Vivian a sealed envelope just before she slid out the door.
“What is it?”
“No idea.” Bea shrugged. “Love letter?”
“Aren’t you funny.” Vivian rolled her eyes and shoved the letter into her evening bag, deciding she would wait until morning to read it. “Go get some sleep.”
She watched until her friend disappeared inside. It was only a few blocks to her own building from there; she started to slide out the door before the cabdriver stopped her.
“The Chinese fella already overpaid the fare,” he pointed out. So she let him drive her home as well.
The street was reassuringly empty as the cab pulled away, no dark figures lurking in the shadows that puddled around the streetlights or padded the gaps between buildings. Vivian could have imagined herself alone in the world as she climbed the stairs.
The illusion was broken on the third floor. Mrs. Thomas was leaning against the wall, a cigarette between her rough fingers and one rickety window open to let in what passed for fresh air.
“What are you doing up?” Vivian asked. She should have continued on without speaking. But she never ran into anyone when she returned from her nighttime outings.
Mrs. Thomas took a slow drag, her expression unreadable. “Grandbaby’s teething,” she said, tilting her chin to blow a stream of smoke out into the night. She looked Vivian up and down, and even in the dim light the curl of her lip was obvious. “No rest for the wicked, I see.”
Vivian’s stomach knotted with embarrassment. “Oh?” she said, pretending she didn’t understand.
“Careful, girl. You’ll end up like your poor whore of a mother one of these days.”
The words were like a slap, and Vivian sucked in a pained breath. Normally she was the one who could withstand Mrs. Thomas’s barbs. But her defenses had been worn down by fear and exhaustion and the feeling of her world shifting precariously under her feet. “You don’t know anything about my mother. Or me.”
Mrs. Thomas laughed bitterly. “You expect me to believe it’s that sister of yours who’s the wayward one? Men don’t come looking for a nun like her.”
“There’s no—” Vivian broke off. Leo. She could have killed him. He knew what it had meant when he showed up at her work. And now he hadn’t just come to her home, he was asking the neighbors about her…
A sudden chill snaked its way down her spine. What if it hadn’t been Leo? What if the man looking for her had been one of Roy’s bruisers? What if he had found Florence?
“Who was it?” she demanded. One hand clenched the banister so tightly that the spindly rails trembled. “Did he give a name? What did he look like? Is Florence—”
The look Mrs. Thomas gave her was pitying. “Not my job to keeptrack of your men if you can’t do it yourself. I thought you were a smarter girl than that.”
“It’s not—”
Mrs. Thomas had already tossed the stub of her cigarette out the window and slammed the sash down. “We could use some milk in the morning,” she said by way of answer. “Unless you’re too high and mighty to help out a neighbor anymore.”
Vivian wanted to smack the woman. But the weariness bruising the sallow skin under Mrs. Thomas’s eyes kept her in check. She might be bitter and angry, but she would have said if anything had happened to Florence. Vivian bit the inside of her cheek and took a deep breath. “Anything else you need?” she asked when she could speak calmly again. Debts were a burden, but that didn’t mean she could stop paying them.
“What do I always need? Fewer mouths and more money.” Mrs. Thomas shrugged, already heading for her door. “Take my advice. Get what you can from your fella and kick him to the curb quick, or you’ll end up like me before you know it.”
Vivian climbed the stairs slowly. She wouldn’t end up like Mrs. Thomas. And if the letter in her bag had what Honor promised, she was going to make sure Florence never did either.
All of a sudden, she couldn’t wait until morning to read it. The front room was dark when she unlocked the door and let herself in: the building wasn’t wired for electricity, and Florence always put out the lamp when she went to bed. But there was usually a light left in the hall washroom.
Toeing off her shoes so she wouldn’t make too much noise, Vivian tiptoed to the bedroom door and pressed her ear against it, waiting until she heard the sound of a sleepy sigh. Whoever had come by, he hadn’t bothered her sister. Reassured, Vivian fumbled in the dark for the lamp and slipped out to go light it.
As she made her way down the hall, Vivian heard a door behind her creak open and shut again quietly; she grimaced as she lit her lampat the washroom light, wishing she had changed her clothes before wandering around. Any neighbor who saw her now would make the same assumption Mrs. Thomas had.
But there was no help for that. Lamp in hand, Vivian hurried back down the hall to her own home. Slipping quietly in, she closed the door behind her and placed the light on the table, looking around for where she had dropped her purse.
The soft click of a lock behind her echoed through the silent room.
