Alba’s bag and notebook fell to the ground, and she grabbed the doorframe with one hand to steady herself, her other hand tightening protectively across her belly once more. “But who—Why would someone—”
“For his money, looks like,” Vivian said quietly. “Someone’s been threatening folks around here, sending them letters demanding whatever pretty or precious things they’ve got, and threatening them with poisoning if they don’t pay up. And Pearlie got one of those letters, because someone must have talked and found out about the money.”
“What?” Alba was shaking her head, her back pressed against the doorframe as though she were trying to run away without realizing it. “That doesn’t make any sense. How…” She trailed off, eyes wide and mouth trembling.
“Pearlie didn’t pay up,” Bea said, holding out the letter, relentless in the face of Alba’s denial. “We just found the letter in his things. He didn’t pay up, so they killed him and took the money.”
“And now word’s going to get around,” Vivian said, realization dawning. “That’s what they’re hoping for, I bet. Word gets around, and then people really will pay up, because they don’t want to die and have it just dismissed as a suicide or an accident—”
“And of course the police aren’t paying any attention, because that’s exactly what it looks like,” Bea agreed bitterly. “And we can’t even tell them, because who knows what kind of reach this group has and who they’ll come after next.”
“No. That doesn’t make sense.” Alba was still shaking her head. “Thatcan’tbe what happened, you don’t—”
The door to the apartment opened, and all three of them turned in panic. But the woman who was standing there looked too old to be Alba’s mother, her white hair pulled into a soft, old-fashioned knot on top of her head and her face a spiderweb of cozy lines and folds. She looked as kind and gentle as it was possible for an old woman to look as she stared at the three of them in surprise and confusion. For a moment Vivian relaxed. But then the woman’s gaze moved from Vivian to Bea, her expression growing pinched and suspicious. When she finally rounded on Alba, her eyes were hard and flinty, her mouth twisted as though she were tasting something disgusting. An angry, disapproving torrent of words exploded out of her, her voice starting loud and getting louder. Vivian flinched; even though she couldn’t understand, it wasn’t hard to figure out the meaning as the old woman gestured dismissively at Alba and pointed toward the door. Alba spoke to her rapidly in the same language, but the old woman just got more insistent, pointing at Vivian and Bea as she shook her head.
“Me voy, Abuela, me voy,”Alba finally snapped. Stalking to the table, she gathered all the papers into a pile and shoved them at Bea, who was left with her arms full, papers sticking out at all angles. Vivian picked up the bag and notebook, planning to carry them for her; the notebook was actually a sketchbook, she saw, full of little drawings, birds and plants and buildings around the city. But Alba snatched them both from her, glaring at Vivian as though daring her to argue. Then, head held high, she stalked toward the door. She didn’t look back, and Vivian and Bea were left scrambling to catch up.
Vivian looked back as she turned to close the door behind her. Theold woman, silent now, was watching her granddaughter go. There were tears in her eyes. But when she saw Vivian looking at her, her expression grew flinty again. She stepped forward just enough to yank the door out of Vivian’s hand and slam it closed.
Vivian stared at the door, her heart aching for Alba in ways that she could never say out loud.
Maybe Florence was right. Maybe it was better not to have any family at all.
TWELVE
Bea and Alba were back at the Henrys’ apartment by the time Vivian caught up to them, and they weren’t the only ones there. Abraham had arrived, hat in hand as he cast sideways glances at Florence, who was still sitting with the children. When Bea walked in, he practically leaped forward to catch her hand.
“Where have you been?” he asked. “I was worried you were trying to—”
“Just taking care of a few things,” Bea said firmly, jerking her head toward her brother and sister in a clear warning to watch what he said. Abraham winced and nodded. She shoved the letters into his hands. “Here, hold on to these, okay? I just need to get Alba settled.”
Alba met Abraham’s eyes briefly, and they stared at each other before Alba, head held high, let Bea usher her into one of the bedrooms to unpack her things. Abraham watched them go with a frown on his face.
Vivian watched him in turn. She wasn’t surprised that he had come to check on Bea—it was good that he had. And she wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted to ask what she and Honor had discovered. But helooked downright unhappy, twisting his hat between his hands as he watched Bea and Alba. He had been friendly with Pearlie, she knew. Maybe he didn’t get along with Alba, who could be prickly and melodramatic if you rubbed her the wrong way. And Abraham himself wasn’t the most easygoing of people.
Vivian looked away quickly as Abraham turned back to the room, not wanting him to know she had been watching him. Still on edge from the discovery of the letter in Pearlie’s things and the ugly confrontation with Alba’s grandmother, she leaned against the kitchen counter and closed her eyes, listening to Florence. Once, when they were much younger, Florence had told her stories about their mother, about her dreams for their life together. Those moments hovered at the edges of Vivian’s memory, and trying to catch them was like trying to learn a dance she could only watch out of the corner of her eye. But the sound of Florence’s quiet voice still made her feel safe for a brief, distracting moment.
“It’s the fanciest thing I’ve ever worked on in my life,” Florence was saying. Everett and eleven-year-old Baby—whose real name was Della, after her mother, but no one called her that—were sitting at the table with cups of milk in front of them, watching while Florence sketched a picture of a dress on a crumpled sheet of brown grocer’s paper. “The gems go right here around the neckline, see? Almost like a necklace themselves. And then also around the hem. I have to sew on teeny, tiny metal brackets to hold them in place, and they have to be in just the right spots.”
Vivian opened her eyes at last to find Abraham flipping through the papers Bea had handed him. His face fell, likely when he realized whose letters they were, and his mouth twisted unhappily. But a moment later he grew still, staring at one of the papers in the pile. Vivian could guess which one.
“What kind of gems?” Baby asked, wide-eyed, the line of milk on her upper lip making her look even younger than she was.
“Aquamarine and topaz,” Florence said, her smile wistful as she wiped Baby’s face with her fingers. Florence loved beautiful, delicate things, and she could never afford them for herself. “They make the prettiest pattern, pale blue and gold. And the dress is a deep navy blue, so they really do seem to shine against it. Miss Ethel calls them semiprecious stones, but they seem pretty precious to me.”
Abraham’s head shot up as he finished reading. “Bea!” he began, before Vivian slid close and nudged his ankle with her foot. He turned to her, scowling.
“She won’t want you yelling about it,” she murmured. “Or waving it around.”
“But what—”
“What’s going on?” Everett piped up, looking over at them.
“Nothing,” Abraham said quickly, putting the pile of papers on the counter and trying to smile. “Just going to check on your sister.” He strode into the bedroom.
As soon as he was gone, Vivian pulled the letter out of the pile. Bea wouldn’t want to risk her brothers or sister finding that. Vivian put it in her pocket, just to get it out of the way. She would ask Bea what to do with it later.
“She locks the dress and the box of stones up every night before the store closes,” Florence continued. “I can’t start work until she unlocks it for me in the morning.”
