“Bea was a mess last night. You know her uncle Pearlie?” Vivian asked quietly. She had been looking at her coffee cup so she didn’t have to meet her sister’s eyes, but now she glanced up to catch Florence’s worried nod. “He died yesterday. The doctor thinks…” Quietly, fiddling with her food now instead of eating it, she told Florence about Pearlie’s suicide.
She didn’t tell her that it might not have been a suicide after all. If Bea was right, Vivian wanted whatever had happened to stay as far away from her sister as possible.
“That poor family,” Florence said, her voice breaking. “The little ones will be devastated. And Bea… He brought pictures of her father with him when he arrived, you know.”
“I know.”
Florence shook her head, pushing her plate away as though she had lost her appetite. “That’s the third suicide I’ve heard about in the last month.”
“Poor folks are desperate folks,” Vivian said, standing abruptly and gathering their dishes. It was almost time for them to leave for work.
Florence had already made sandwiches for their lunch, wrapped in brown paper and tucked into a basket. Miss Ethel didn’t give any of her seamstresses a long enough break to buy lunch, and they didn’t like to spend the money in any case. And Vivian needed something she could carry with her in case her deliveries took up more than just the morning.
“I know,” Florence said sadly. “And desperate folks do awful things. I just feel so awful for them. Should we take them dinner tonight?” she asked as they headed out.
Vivian carefully locked the door behind them as they left. “Sure,” she agreed, hoping she would have something to tell Bea by that night.Not an answer—she didn’t have the sort of connections that could convince a coroner to drop all his work and do her a favor.
“I can pick something up and take it over once I’m done with my deliveries,” she said. “I want to check on Bea anyway. And Lord knows Mrs. Henry deserves our help.”
Maybe by then she’d be able to tell Bea she had set things in motion. Anything to help her friend move past the heartbreak of her uncle’s death.
The deliveries ended with the morning. After four hours of crisscrossing the Upper East Side in cheap shoes, Vivian’s feet were aching, her hair hung limp under the brim of her hat, and she could feel sweat trickling down the back of her legs. Summer was brutal in the city—not that she had ever experienced it anywhere else.
But her work for Miss Ethel was done for the day, which meant she had a few hours before she needed to meet Florence at home. It was time to ask for her favor.
Vivian’s steps slowed as she came around the corner. The building she was looking for was a cozy brownstone that she knew had been divided up into private homes—only one or two rooms each, but still worlds of comfort beyond where she and Florence lived. The door was only a few steps away when she paused, her mouth twisting in a grimace as she tried to decide what to do. The landlady, who lived on the first floor, was a stuffy, old-fashioned woman who would think only one thing about a girl coming to see one of her male tenants. Vivian didn’t much like the idea of being looked up and down, thoroughly judged, and sent on her way.
But her mind was made up for her when someone came out the front door only a moment later. Tall and lanky, with arms that swung awkwardly by his sides as he walked, he wasn’t the man she was thereto see. Before she could talk herself out of it, Vivian hurried down the sidewalk and caught the door before it could swing closed behind him. The man, who was muttering what sounded like a shopping list under his breath, continued down the street without noticing, and Vivian was able to slip inside. Stepping on her toes, as light as if she were dancing a quickstep, she made her way up to the third floor.
There she paused, hesitating again, before taking a deep breath and crossing the hall to one of the heavy, old doors. She was raising her hand to knock when the door swung open, the room’s occupant just putting on his hat and ready to step out when they came face-to-face.
Vivian held in a yelp of surprise and took a quick step backward. But the man was clearly used to a particular kind of unexpected visitor, his hand going faster than she could follow to the back of his waistband.
Before she had even caught her breath, she was staring down the business end of a revolver, pointed unwaveringly at her chest.
FIVE
“God almighty,” he swore, though he kept his voice down, as he tucked the gun back under his jacket. “Don’t sneak up on a fella like that.”
“I wasn’t sneaking,” she protested as he grabbed her hand and hauled her into the room, closing the door behind them before anyone could see her in the hall. “I mean, I snuck past your landlady, sure. I’m not an idiot. But that was just bad timing.”
“And you couldn’t give me a call to warn me you were coming by?”
“I should have,” Vivian said, her voice shaking. She’d forgotten how fast he could move when he thought he was in for a fight.
“You should have,” he agreed, running his hands from her shoulders down her arms in a quick, soothing gesture. “Hey there, Vivian Kelly.”
Vivian laughed, and the sound was only a little forced. “Hey there, Leo Green.”
Leo took a step back, looking her over from head to toe. Vivian felt her cheeks getting warm. She and Leo had been on a few dates, and gotten a little frisky a time or two, but his line of work—and the factthat he had lied to her about who he really was for the first weeks they had known each other—made him a hard man to trust completely. She had forgiven him for the lies, but forgiveness and trust were two different things. Aside from a dance here and there, she had kept her distance since she learned the truth. Leo, to his credit, hadn’t pushed.
Now, he hooked a knuckle under her chin, lifting it gently as he looked her over. “It’s been a few weeks.”
“You haven’t been around,” she pointed out.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, shrugging. “I’ve been busy working.”
“For your uncle?” Vivian couldn’t help the way her voice dropped as she said it. His uncle was the police commissioner, a cold, ruthless man whose job was as much—or more—about protecting the interests of the wealthy New Yorkers who kept him employed as it was about policing the city.
