“Be careful, Vivian,” Miss Ethel had warned, her voice soft and laced with venom as they faced each other across the table. “I’m strict with you girls for your own good. I started down a wayward path once, and I’ve spent the rest of my life clawing my way back to respectability.”
“Actually, she was very understanding.” Vivian didn’t quite meet her sister’s eyes. “She’s making some changes. You get a raise and Saturdays off. I’m going to stick with deliveries so she doesn’t have to hire couriers.”
“That doesn’t sound like her,” Florence said. “Any idea why she’d do us a favor like that?”
“And what you are doing is more than wayward. It is illegal. If you ever want a chance of being part of respectable society—”
Vivian had interrupted her. “I don’t much care about being respectable. What I want is freedom.”
“No idea,” Vivian said to Florence, shrugging. “But I’m sure not going to argue about it.”
Florence’s eyes never left Vivian’s. “I guess I won’t ask her why then.”
“Probably best not to,” Vivian agreed. She was determined to give Florence a better life—and to give herself the freedom she ached for—but she didn’t want her sister to know how it had happened. Florence wouldn’t approve of blackmail.
They were silent again, until Florence reached out to squeeze her hand. “You don’t have to worry, you know. I’ll be all right. We’ll be all right.”
“Oh, Flo.” Vivian lay down, her head in her sister’s lap. “I’m sorry I didn’t grow into the kind of girl you wanted me to be. But I promise, things’ll be better for us from now on. I’m going to make them better.”
I don’t much care about being respectable. What I want is freedom.
“You’re here, Vivi, and you’re safe,” Florence said. Her voice was fierce, but her hands were gentle as she stroked the bobbed curtain of hair away from Vivian’s eyes. “That’s all I want.”
Vivian waited until her sister fell asleep before retreating to the main room. Everything was still a jumble. Someone had tucked Florence’s Smith & Wesson into one of the kitchen cabinets—to hide it from the police?—and she left that uneasily on the counter, not sure what to do with it while she dealt with the rest of the room. Two broken chairs had been pushed into a pile in one corner. Florence’s sewing basket was overturned under the table, along with everything Vivian had been carrying when she got home.
As she started cleaning up, she frowned at the papers jumbled on the ground, unsure where they had come from. It took a minute of staring at them before she remembered what they were: the papers Leo had stolen from Wilson’s study.
The Fifth Avenue and North Shore places were obvious, but theBaxter Street one was odd. Vivian stared at the address, then closed her eyes tightly, trying to remember where she had heard someone mention Baxter Street recently.
We’ll take care of the Baxter Street place tomorrow. There won’t be any sign that she was ever there.
Bruiser George, speaking to Hattie Wilson. Vivian opened her eyes.She,he had said. And suddenly, Vivian had an idea of who thatshemight be. Hattie Wilson had insisted that her sister was out on Long Island when her husband was murdered. But if Myrtle had actually been in the city, hidden downtown, away from where anyone would recognize her…
Hattie might not believe her sister was capable of murder. But Vivian remembered the wild, desperate look in the girl’s eyes. Someone so badly hurt was capable of anything.
Vivian was glad to let Florence think that Roy was a murderer. It would help her deal with what had happened, and the police were convinced of it, anyway. But Vivian needed to know.
THIRTY-TWO
Lurking in the shadow of a nearby awning, Vivian eyed the building on Baxter Street warily.
It was tall and run-down, as if the buildings on either side were the only reason it was still standing. Judging by the washing lines trailing from the windows and the few people going in and out, it was divided into homes inside.
From what she had overheard at the Wilson house, George and Eddie would be there the next day to clear out any remaining traces of Myrtle’s presence. If she was going to find anything, it had to be today. Still, she hesitated.
She had been determined to head to Baxter Street on her own, to prove to herself, at least, that she could handle whatever came her way. She didn’t want to see Leo or Honor yet, and Bea had made it clear she thought Vivian needed to be done with the Wilsons. She remembered Danny mentioning his parents’ restaurant, and vaguely thought it might not be far from Baxter Street. But she wasn’t sure exactly where—and she didn’t, when it came down to it, know Danny well outside theNightingale. He probably had better things to do with his time than watch over a girl who was jumping at shadows.
She didn’t want to be that girl, so she hopped on the Broadway line, heading south, alone.
The gun she had tucked in her coat pocket before she left was a reassuring weight against her thigh when she emerged into the sunlight at last. But she still had the eerie sensation that someone was following her. Each time, she would stop, glancing over her shoulder, before deciding that she was imagining things and continue on.
Now, Vivian crossed the street until she was just to the right of the building she was actually interested in. This one had a restaurant on the first floor, and through the windows she could see two groups—one table full of older Chinese men, the other one of laughing white boys visiting downtown for a bit of adventure and cheap dinner after work. Vivian pretended to study the menu in the window, waiting for someone to come out of the building next door. After a few minutes, someone did: a middle-aged man with his hands full of bolts of cloth. He let the door swing carelessly behind him; Vivian was able to catch it before it closed and slip inside.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light; when she did, she jumped. Staring at her, arms crossed, was an old woman, her hair completely white and her face wrinkled like week-old newsprint. A cane dangled from one hand, and she tapped it impatiently against her thigh.
“Um, I… sorry,” Vivian stammered. “I’m looking for a girl? Or a place where a girl was staying? Probably by herself?”
The old woman was silent for so long that Vivian wondered if she had understood. But at last she jerked her head toward the staircase. “Mr. Willard keeps the top rooms for himself,” she said at last in a creaky voice. “But there’s no girl now, her sister already took her home.”
