“Sweet Jesus,” Abraham bit off. Bea reached for his hand, her own eyes fixed on Guzman; Abraham took it and pressed it against his mouth.
Vivian was too terrified to say anything; her breath felt like it was tangled in her throat.
“Were the little ones all right?” Honor asked.
“They were. But the threat was clear. Another letter arrived that day, and they did exactly what it said. So yeah, I handed over that hairbrush.” He sighed. “I’m sorry about your uncle, Songbird. But if he got one of those letters, you should just do what it says.”
“Do you still have yours?” Vivian asked. “So we know what to look for?”
He shook his head. “I burned it. Didn’t want that sticking around in my life.”
“You didn’t want to take it to the police?” Vivian asked, not because she thought the answer would be yes—it clearly wasn’t—but because she wanted to know what he would say.
“They tried that,” he said shortly. “My neighbors. They didn’t have the letter, but they told the cops what had happened after that poison arrived. Want to know what they said?”
“No,” Abraham said, looking queasy. Vivian didn’t blame him. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good.
“Yes,” Bea said quietly.
“They said that if they couldn’t keep dangerous substances away from their kids, the little ones would be taken away. Police don’t care about someone trying to steal from poor folks, because they don’t think poor folks have anything worth stealing. So no, I didn’t try to go to them. I just left the damn thing where I was supposed to. And you should do the same.”
Bea stood up abruptly, her breath coming in short, frantic bursts. “I need to find out if Pearlie got one of those letters,” she said. “I can’t remember seeing anything in his papers. I need to go. Right now.”
Abraham had jumped to his feet. “I’ll take you, baby,” he said quickly, putting an arm around her and pulling her close. “It’s going to be okay.”
Bea cast a look at Vivian. “Will you—”
“Of course. First thing in the morning, I’ll come tell you anything else we find out,” Vivian said. “Go, it’s okay.”
Mr. Guzman watched them leave, shaking his head. “Poor kid,” he said. Downing the rest of his drink and standing up, he cast a quick look at Honor. “Was that all?”
“Not quite.” She was watching him closely. “So you just left the hairbrush and that was it?” Honor asked. There was a note of skepticism in her voice, verging on suspicion, and Vivian turned to look at her in surprise. But Honor was watching Guzman. “Nothing else?”
Honor was good at reading people. She had to be, in her line of work, had to be able to tell when someone was lying or holding information back from her. Vivian didn’t know what had tipped her off this time, but Guzman’s jaw tightened. For a moment, Vivian thought that he would walk away.
Then he let out a short, humorless laugh and shook his head. “No. You’re sharp, lady. That wasn’t it. I hid. I wanted to spot whoever was coming to pick it up and beat them to a pulp.”
“What happened?”
“Whoever it was got to me first. I heard someone behind me, and before I could turn around they had bashed me over the back of the head. I was out cold. Woke up at least an hour later. Someone had taken my shoes, and I got sick every time I walked up the stairs for a week.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “Had to spend three dollars I couldn’t afford on new shoes, on top of everything else.”
“You know anyone else who got one?” Vivian asked. He was almost done talking to them, she could tell, and she couldn’t blame him for it. Just thinking about what had happened to him and his neighbors made her shudder. “Anyone else you gave that advice to?”
He shrugged. “Word gets around about something like this, especially after a few months of it happening.”
“Months?” Vivian breathed, exchanging a quick, shocked glancewith Honor. But Guzman wasn’t done. In spite of his hesitation, it seemed like he was relieved to be talking about the whole thing.
“There were a few people next street over. Anyone who didn’t pay up right away got a can of poison in the mail. One fella even woke up to find someone had come up the fire escape and left it inside his window. There’s probably folks out there who know of more, if you could get them to talk. But I doubt they will.”
“What did your neighbors have to hand over?” Honor asked.
He shrugged. “Gold locket with a rose on it. Pretty thing. Probably worth a tidy little bit. But not worth more than their kids’ lives. Like I said, just do what the letter says. And that’s allI’vegot to say about it. So I’ll take that cash now.” He held out his hand.
When Honor pulled out another two bills for an even three dollars, his eyes widened in surprise. He nodded his thanks as he took it. “Thanks for your help, mister,” Honor said.
“Yeah. Do me a favor, and don’t drag me into this again. And tell your songbird sorry again about Pearlie,” he added as he turned away. “Poor bastard. Shoulda just paid up when he got that letter.”
Once he was gone—he made a beeline for the stairs—Vivian and Honor stared at each other. “Do you think,” Vivian said slowly, “if he comes here, and he knew Pearlie… do you think whoever is writing these letters has something to do with the Nightingale after all?”
