“Commissioner,” Leo had greeted him, polite and distant.
Vivian had swallowed, unable to say anything.
Leo’s uncle had eyed them with impassive curiosity before ordering the butler to prepare coffee for the young lady and gesturing them into the two chairs that stood before his desk. Taking his own seat opposite them, he had looked her up and down, his eyebrows rising as he took in the tattered mess of her evening clothes and the bruises around her throat. He didn’t miss Leo hovering protectively behind her chair, either, but both his expression and voice were neutral when he finally spoke. “Start from the beginning.”
Vivian didn’t do that—there was no way she was telling this man she had been the one to find Wilson’s body in that alley—but she did say she knew where he had died. Leo didn’t correct her, and the commissioner didn’t show any reaction to the admission that she visited a dance hall, so she kept going. Delivering Hattie Wilson’s dresses, the whispered conversation she overheard from the top of the stairs, the men who cornered her on her way home. The gossip about Hattie’s pregnancy and her affair with Roy Carlton, the two toughs who showed up at the Nightingale to distract the owner and staff while Roy rifledthrough the office for more information. His near admission that the baby was his, that he was hoping Hattie would come back to him now her husband was out of the picture. His appearance in her home that night, his frantic, drunk insistence that she tell him what she knew.
“And then he grabbed me…” Her hands and voice both shook, and her words stumbled to a halt. How could she describe what it felt like to have his fingers around her throat, the sight of Florence standing there, her face blank with horror, the gun still in her hand?
“I thought he was going to kill me,” she whispered. “And instead, he’s the one who died.”
She couldn’t meet the commissioner’s eyes, and she didn’t want to look back at Leo. So she took a gulp of the bitter coffee, grateful for its scalding heat, though it made her cough. She was alive. Florence was alive. The Nightingale and everyone in it would be safe. It was over.
“Well.” The commissioner steepled his fingers on the desk in front of him. Glancing up from under her lashes, she could see the thoughtful expression on his face. He looked up at Leo, then nodded. “Officially, of course, Mr. Wilson died of a heart ailment, so none of this has anything to do with his death. But I believe it will satisfy the remaining questions of all interested parties.” He gave Vivian a serious nod. “Thank you for your information, young lady. And you, Mr. Green.” He pulled a fat envelope out of a drawer and slid it across the desk to Leo, who pocketed it with a nod. “I am grateful for your assistance.”
There was nothing affectionate between them, nothing that would have told Vivian they were related if Leo hadn’t already admitted it. They didn’t even look anything alike.
The commissioner stood. “I’m sure you’ve made the necessary arrangements, Mr. Green. Tell anyone who needs payment to send their bills here. You’ll hear from me if anything else arises requiring your talents. Good evening.”
And then he was gone once more. He hadn’t asked her name once or wanted to know how Roy Carlton had died. Vivian shuddered and put her coffee down on the desk so sharply that it sloshed over the edge.
“Who are the interested parties?” she asked, wanting to know who had been behind all the Nightingale’s troubles, who Roy had been so desperate to hide his involvement from.
Leo shrugged. “No idea. But that’s that.” He held out his hand to help her to her feet. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”
The sergeant in the police car was still waiting outside the back door. Vivian expected that Leo would send her on her way, but he slid into the back seat with her once more and directed the driver to take them back to her building.
He didn’t say anything, but he kept glancing at her as they drove through the night, the darkness broken by the glow of electric lights and brief bursts of laughter and music. The world was carrying on, not knowing and not caring that Roy Carlton had died that night.
Vivian wondered if he had parents or friends who had loved him. She wondered what would have happened to Florence if she had died. She was achingly conscious of Leo, sitting silently only a foot away from her, of the quietly curious presence of the sergeant in the front seat. Something inside her felt like it was shattering, or freezing, or bursting free at last. She stared out the window, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the starless sky.
They didn’t speak the whole ride, didn’t speak when the sergeant parked in front of her building and came around to open her door. They didn’t say a word when Leo slid out after her and walked her to the door.
But she did meet his eyes at last, and for a moment she wanted to drown in the worry and relief and tenderness there. But when he reached for her, she flinched away. “Don’t touch me,” she said.
His eyes were pleading. “Please don’t be angry, Viv.”
“Don’t be angry. Don’t be angry, you say.” Vivian could hear her voice rising hysterically and didn’t care. Half of her wanted to punch him right in his puppy dog–sweet face; the other half wanted to throw herself into his arms. “Don’t beangry? You lied to me, Leo.” She laughed bitterly, rolling her eyes up. “And I fell for it. The boy with the sweetsmile who dances a mean quickstep and just wants to make sure I stay safe. You were lying the whole time.”
“None of that was a lie.”
“You were using me.”
“I was trying to make sure you were safe.” Leo’s hands flexed as if he wanted to grab her shoulders, and Vivian tensed to pull away. But instead he ran both hands through his hair, pulling at it in frustration. “What did I say to you that was actually a lie? I told you I was working for my uncle. Can you really blame me for not mentioning what kind of work that was?”
“You told me you didn’t know who Wilson was.”
“I told you I’d never met him. I told you I’d never heard his name until after he was already dead,” Leo pointed out. “Both of which were true. My uncle didn’t ask me to help him out until Wilson had already been killed.”
“And I’m sure the fact that you remember those very honest statements so well proves how honest they were,” Vivian snapped. “Clearly, you didn’t have to think about them carefully at all.”
She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. There was a numb, heavy feeling settling in her chest, chasing away her anger and leaving her deflated and exhausted in its wake. Dropping her hands, she looked back at Leo, whose own defensive anger had faded into concern as he watched her. “Did you feel honest when you said them?” she asked.
His face fell. “No,” he said. “I felt like a sleazy bastard. Which is what I am, Vivian, and what I told you I was. Fellas like me aren’t the nice, upstanding boys that girls are supposed to spend their time with. You knew that.”
Vivian nodded. “I knew that. I just really hoped you weren’t lying to me.”
“What was I supposed to say?” Taking a step toward her, he reached out a careful hand. When she didn’t flinch away, he cupped his palm around her cheek, lowering his forehead until it rested against hers. “I like you, Viv. I’ve liked you since the first time we danced together.”
