“Did you know him?”
“Never seen him before in my life,” Danny said, bending down to scoop up his hat from where it had fallen to the ground. As he straightened, he frowned at her. “You okay, Viv?”
“I thought he said…” Vivian trailed off, still staring after the man. Could she have misheard him?
“Come on.” Danny took her arm. “It’s getting late. You’ve got to get home, and I have to get to work.”
Vivian, her thoughts racing with questions, let him lead her away.
THIRTY-THREE
Danny had to go back to his parents’ restaurant, but first he walked her to the closest station for the elevated train on Ninth Street.
“Honor’d sack me or shoot me if she found out I let you wander around on your own today,” he said dryly when she tried to insist she was fine on her own. He gave her a sideways look. “Have you seen her since…?”
“No,” Vivian said quickly, feeling her face and neck heat. She wasn’t sure which direction his thoughts were headed, but either way, she didn’t want to talk about it. As the train pulled away from the station, she could see Danny’s concerned face still watching her from the platform.
When she got to her stop, though, she didn’t immediately head home. Instead, her steps carried her past her front door, until she reached the riverfront. There were plenty of people around, workers heading to and from the piers or couples strolling together. But they were all too caught up in their own business to pay any attention to her, and Vivian reached the end of one of the piers without being stopped.
She waited until there was no one around before pulling the gun from her pocket. She would never have been able to fire it herself, and she didn’t want Florence to have to again, either. After a moment of hesitation, she let it drop. It hit the water with a splash that startled two nearby seagulls into flight, but no one else seemed to notice.
Vivian turned her steps toward home.
Vivian found Florence awake and a pot of soup simmering on the stove.
“Mrs. Thomas dropped it off,” Florence explained. She was wrapped in a heavy shawl and an old pair of men’s pajamas that she’d had for the last five years, seated at the table with her own bowl of soup in front of her. “I think she’s feeling guilty, though I’m not sure what for. I’ll take it over all her nasty comments, though.”
“She let him in last night,” Vivian said, kicking off her shoes. In her head, she could hear every ugly thing Mrs. Thomas had ever said or not said about their mother. “She can feel guilty for as long as she likes, and it won’t be too long.”
Florence frowned into her bowl, then shrugged. “Well, she can’t afford to keep feeding us, so she’ll probably get over it soon enough.”
“And be back to her normal comments about our mother?” Vivian dropped into the other chair and grabbed her sister’s hand. “I met someone who knew her today.”
“Vivi,weknow her.”
“Not Mrs. Thomas. I met someone who knew our mother.”
Florence froze, a sudden hopeful look in her eyes, before she shook her head. “No, you didn’t.”
“I did, I’m sure of it.” Vivian described the old man collapsing on Baxter Street. “He was hustled off to a doctor pretty quick. But he looked right at me and called me May. He called meour mother’s name. Mrs. Thomas always says I look like her, aside from my hair. Maybe—”
“Be reasonable. What’s the chance anyone in that part of the city knew an Irish girl who got kicked out by her family?”
“Then why would he call me that?” Vivian stood abruptly and paced around the room, too wound up to stay sitting. “If I can find him again, I can ask him. If he knew her, he might know where she came from.” Vivian gripped the back of the chair so hard it made her hands ache. “We might find out we have family after all.”
“I do have family,” Florence said quietly. “I have you.”
The comment was so unexpectedly sweet that it made Vivian’s train of thought pull up short.
“And even if it’s true, how could you possibly find him again?” Florence shook her head. “Why were you there anyway?”
Vivian slowly unclenched her hands from the chair back, not meeting her sister’s eyes. “Had a quick errand to run.”
Florence bit her lip, then nodded slowly. “Okay. Well, you should eat something first.”
“First?”
“Before you go out.” Florence looked up, pale but resolute—or maybe just resigned. She was being as understanding as she could, but her expression was still edged with worry. That wasn’t going away. “I assume you need to talk to someone about whatever that errand was?”
