Alone, now, Vivian wondered if she should have called her sister instead of Leo. If Leo couldn’t get her out, Florence would have no idea where she had gone, maybe not for weeks. But her sister couldn’t help her right now. Even together, it wasn’t like they could afford a lawyer.
The sergeant had taken her purse and work bag when they brought her into the station. Little wonder about that—the sewing kit had scissors in it, and pins and needles, things they weren’t going to leave in the hands of a girl who might be guilty of murder. But she hoped that, one way or another, she could get it back. Those things weren’t cheap, and she didn’t want to be on the hook for replacing them on top of everything else.
It was easier to worry about money and work than to think about what might be coming next. She’d be sent to jail if she was lucky. Maybe in three or five years they’d let her out, if they thought she hadn’t meant to kill him. Or maybe she’d end up at one of the state’sworkhouses, if they looked at her and saw a poor girl in danger of an immoral life, someone they needed to save from herself or save other people from.
And if they thought she’d killed him on purpose…
Vivian swallowed down a wave of nausea. If that was the case, at least Florence would know where she was, because it would for certain end up in the papers.
In the middle of that grim thought, the door banged open.
Vivian jumped, then tried to look like she hadn’t. But there was no disguising her nervousness as she eyed the man who had just walked in.
He didn’t look like a cop. He was wearing a suit instead of a uniform, and the up-and-down look he gave her didn’t have the brittle edge of suspicion that she expected.
“Get your coat, young lady, and follow me.”
“Who are you?” She didn’t stand up.
“Jacob Dubinski. I’m your lawyer.”
“I don’t have a lawyer.”
“You do today. Get your coat. We’re leaving.”
Vivian wanted to bound to her feet, to push past him and make a break for the door. She stood slowly. “They’re just letting me walk out? Did something happen? Did they find who killed Mr. Buchanan?”
“No, and no, and I very much doubt it.” He chuckled. He was older than she had first thought; his dark hair had only a sprinkling of gray in it, but the veins stood out in the back of his hands, and his eyes and cheeks folded up in creases when he laughed. It wasn’t quite a friendly sound, and the look he gave her couldn’t be called friendly either—curious, calculating, as though she were an odd-looking insect being examined under a magnifying glass. But there was no cruelty in it. “Your explanation is waiting out in the lobby, if you’d care to get a move on? Unless you’ve grown to like it in here.” He glanced around the dim room, so small it felt like the walls were slowly inching toward them, and chuckled again at his own joke.
Vivian didn’t ask any more questions. There was only one person who could have sent a lawyer for her. Grabbing her coat, she hurried after Dubinski.
She had lost track of time alone in that windowless room. The sun had begun to set, a single red ray snaking through between the buildings and hitting one of the station’s windows in just the right spot to blind her for a moment as she came into the front lobby. She blinked rapidly, and when her vision cleared, her knees nearly gave out with relief.
In that sterile, uniformed building, the dark-haired man waiting for her stood out like a wolf in an alley full of city strays, sharp and handsome and dangerous if you knew how to recognize his type. A red plaid scarf was draped around his neck and his coat hung open as if he’d been waiting for a while. He would have looked relaxed as he leaned one elbow against the sergeant’s desk, chatting with the young man on duty like they were friends out for a drink. But he was spinning his hat on one finger, over and over, a sure sign that he was more keyed up than he wanted to let on.
He turned when he heard the click of her heels on the cold tile floor. His posture didn’t change, but the relief in his eyes was plain, and his lips curved up in a smile.
“Hey there,” he said, slowly standing up straight.
Vivian didn’t move. She didn’t know what he had told them, didn’t know what was actually happening, and she didn’t want to risk revealing something he had kept hidden. It was dangerous enough that she had called him in the first place. “Hello.”
Leo turned back to the sergeant on duty. “We all square? She have any bags when they brought her in?”
The sergeant frowned. “I don’t think I’m supposed to hand those back over to her. It’s evidence, isn’t it?”
“Of what?” Leo said, leaning his elbow back on the desk. “She’s walking out of here, right?”
The sergeant shrugged. “Guess that’s fine then. But I’m blaming you if anyone comes after me for it.”
“You do that, my friend,” Leo said with a smile. But for all he looked and sounded relaxed, the hat was still spinning on his finger.
Dubinski was holding Vivian’s coat, and he helped her into it. She felt like she was in a dream, like she was floating inches above a fast current of water that would pull her back down at any second, as Leo buttoned up his own coat and perched his hat on his head.
“Thanks for your help,” he said, nodding to the young officer as he accepted her purse and workbag. Turning to where Vivian and the lawyer waited—was he even a real lawyer, or just someone pulled in to play a part?—Leo gave them a friendly nod. “Shall we?”
Vivian walked out the door between them, still not knowing what had happened, sure that at any second, she would hear the shriek of a police whistle and be dragged back inside.
They walked in silence until they were ten blocks away. Vivian had no idea where they were taking her, but the last place she expected them to stop was in front of a little diner, the placard in the window advertising a three-course dinner plus coffee for twenty-five cents.
