Her whole body wanted to sway toward him. She couldn’t let it. If she leaned on anyone now, she’d fall apart completely. “I liked you too,” she whispered. Gently, she stepped away.
Leo’s jaw tightened. “And yes, I used you to find out what I needed to know. But I also wanted to make sure you didn’t get mixed up in anything more dangerous than you already had. I could have killed Honor Huxley for putting you in the middle of this.”
“I’d have ended up in the middle of it anyway. Roy recognized me from the Nightingale. I wasn’t safe after that,” Vivian said, feeling numb. Was there a point in being angry at anyone? “And Florence—” She broke off. How could she ever face her sister?
“She’ll be okay, you know,” Leo said, his voice gentle again. “I meant what I said. The whole thing over and no one coming to ask any questions or take her anywhere. I promise.”
Vivian nodded. The numb feeling was spreading into her arms and legs and eyes, leaving her too tired to keep arguing. “Thanks for that, anyway,” she said. “I could use one more favor.”
He moved forward half a step, as if he couldn’t help himself. “Anything.”
“Tell Honor. Or find Danny and have him tell her. She needs to know it’s over.”
Leo’s face darkened for a moment. He clearly didn’t want to think about Honor Huxley just then. But he sighed and nodded anyway. “Will do.” He was silent as she turned toward the door. Then, “Vivian.”
The naked regret in his voice made her pause, though she didn’t turn back around. “Yeah?”
“I’d still really like to take you out again.”
She let out a long breath. “I’m not saying never.” She glanced over her shoulder. “But you have to give me some time.”
He shrugged. “Roy Carlton is dead, and the Wilson mess is wrapped up. I’ve got a pocket full of cash from my uncle and all the time in the world. Right now, every minute of it is yours.”
“You say some awful sweet things, Leo,” she sighed, turning backto unlock the building’s door. “I just have to figure out whether I can believe them or not.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod. “If you or your sister need anything… If anyone else bothers you…”
She nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Good night, Vivian Kelly.”
She didn’t reply as she went inside. The door swung shut behind her, and she slumped against it, almost too tired to move. But Florence was up there. So Vivian sighed once more and started up the four flights of stairs.
THIRTY
Vivian stared at the dingy light that crept through the window, feeling just as sluggish as it looked, while she waited for the water to boil. There had barely been enough coffee left for two cups last night, but the stream of neighbors had been trickling through since they first saw the light appear under her door, questions in their eyes and food in their hands. A few asked awkwardly about Florence as they handed over their offerings of coffee and pie and beans. Vivian was able to answer truthfully that her sister was still sleeping.
None of them had asked about the man Florence had shot, but that was only a matter of time. Vivian was grateful for their discomfort. She hadn’t decided what to say.
Mrs. Thomas had still been there when Vivian returned from the commissioner’s home the night before. The two had sat in crackling silence, watching Florence breathe instead of looking at each other, Vivian still in her torn dress, Mrs. Thomas smoking one lumpy cigarette after another and rubbing the small of her back.
“I wouldn’t have let him in if I’d known he was violent,” Mrs. Thomas said at last, her voice tense with guilt.
“I know.”
“You don’t need to mourn him. And she shouldn’t carry it with her. She did what she had to. The world don’t need another man battering its women.”
“I know.” Vivian took Mrs. Thomas’s cigarette without asking, and the woman lit a new one for herself without protesting. “I don’t care that he’s dead. I care that she had to kill someone because of me.”
“Guess she wasn’t as much of a nun as I thought.”
Vivian almost laughed, but the sound caught in her bruised throat, and she ended up coughing instead. She let the cigarette burn down without smoking it.
Neither of them spoke again. When the nurse arrived, Mrs. Thomas left without wasting time on good-byes. But she was the first one to appear at dawn, a pot of soup in her hands.
The nurse who now sat by Florence’s bed accepted the mug of cheap coffee and asked if Vivian would open the curtain pulled across the room’s single window. A book rested on her lap, a basket of knitting by her feet. Her face was pinched and plain, and there was nothing sentimental in her manner, but her brisk voice was reassuring. “Still sleeping. She’ll be out for hours yet, with that sedative, and in bed for the rest of the day.”
Vivian nodded. She was already dressed, a chiffon scarf—the only pretty thing Florence had ever bought for herself—wound around her throat to hide the bruises. “I’ll be at work for the morning. There’s plenty of food in the main room, and I won’t be surprised if more shows up. You can help yourself.”
