And Stella? Forgive Pax.
—K
When I exit the same subway station hours later, after switching rails and taking the return train south again, the bright afternoon sunlight blinds me. My merry band of bandits, myfriends, are waiting across the sidewalk. I had hoped they would be there, and not scared off by the crowds, by my long detour. They light up like sunbeams when they see me, and the feeling warms me to my core. Friends!
My stupid heart, of course, searches for Pax.Snick!Our connection is still there, which angers me. He used me for my gifts. He lied to me. He has a murderous edge, and I cannot be close to rage that intense. I felt that level of murderous desire before, and I swore I would never give myself over to it again. And last night—last night Ialmostdid, when Blanck was strangling me. I should grab my portion of this haul and get as far away from himas possible. I cannot stand being this confused and hurt.
But Pax is here, and as angry at myself as I am about it, I’m happy he’s here. I lift up the satchel, and Pax beams more at me than at it. It is a beautiful May day in New York City, and Spirit shares the giddy sensation of floating—in the clouds, as high as the top of the Woolworth Building—and briefly, the whole wide world feels within reach.
I cross the sidewalk and reach my friends. Pax runs to me, wraps me in his long, lean arms, picks me off the sidewalk, and spins me in joy. I allow myself to feel happiness right now, in this moment. I tilt my head back and take it all in—the whirling glorious buildings, the spinning glorious sky. He places my two feet gently back on the ground and squeezes me an extra second before tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
“Hi, partner,” he says, grinning. That coffee voice.
“Hello, partner.” And then I smack him, square across the jaw. My palm immediately stings with pain. He stumbles backward but rights himself quickly.
“You used me.”
I expected the denial. I did not expect the tears. “No.”
“You did. You used me for my gift. You saw how lonely I was, and you took advantage.Andyou lied to me, and—”
“Stella, no.” Pax’s voice is so strained I barely hear what he says next: “Look at this.”
He hands me a slip of paper from his pocket. Newsprint. It’s an article, ripped fromThe New York Herald. It’s dated May 22—four days ago. I’ll never forget that day—it’s when Pax and I kissed. Four long, hard, fantastic days. The article is creased from folding and unfolding. It’s soft with wear. It’s tearstained.
I read it, and numbness fills me. I blink through the tears, but the words of the story stay the same.
“That asshole profited off their deaths, Stella,” Pax whispers.
Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood: Blanck’s literal blood money to pay for his “Scot-Free Soiree”?
… And finally! Oh, darlings! There’s enough newsy nonsense in the rest of this rag, no?—but this I must address. Surely you didn’t miss the bit where Max Blanck and his partner, Isaac Harris, aka The Shirtwaist Kings, aka the persons foundnot guiltyin the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire, actuallyprofitedfrom the deaths of their workers? It’s true. After the two owners were acquitted, a civil suit found them liable in the amount of $75 per worker. These two were required to pay this to families who had lost loved ones. (And I don’t know about you, but I have some relatives I’d trade in for $75 in the wink of an eye, darlings.) BUT! Their insurance company covered their damages to the tune of $400 per dead worker. If you’re doing the math, that means Harris and Blanck each walked away from that fire with over $20,000 in the bank. They profited off the perished, those perverse pals. Darlings, I’m itching to get more information for us all when I attend Blanck’s party this Saturday. We now know where he got the funds for such a lavish affair, don’t we? Kiss kiss!
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Is this… is this true?” My hand grasps the news article in a fist.
Pax nods and gnaws on his thumbnail. Spirit gives me the image of a dog baring its teeth in an anguished growl.
I feel sick. My vision narrows to a vein thrumming in Pax’s neck. His pulse, his life force, pounding with anger. The vein is dark, purple, full of ire—the color of his stormy aura.
His head drops. He sinks onto the sidewalk and puts his face in his hands. His shoulders shake. “I’m sorry, Stella. I read that and I—I wanted to kill him. I still do.”
“I—” I steady my breath, realizing I can’t exactly stand in judgment here. “I wanted to kill him, too. Last night, when he was strangling me, tied to that chair—”
“He what?!” Pax’s gaze locks on mine. His eyes blaze wild and his aura darkens further still. That gave me pause before, but I welcome it now. It seems to signal his deep concern for a loved one. And I have to admit: I don’t mind someone concerning themselves with my well-being.
I drop next to him. “That’s why I said Daisy and Julia’s names,” I whisper, rubbing my throat self-consciously. “I’m sorry. But I had to let him know why. Who.”
Pax nods and chokes on a sob. I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his hair. He smells clean like pine and salty like the sea. But there is a hint of vanilla there—the poison oleander.
“I wasn’t there for you, either,” he weeps, and I hold him. I cry, too. Together, we melt. Our anger cools from a boil to a simmer, then settles into deep sadness.
Holding someone while they cry is the most intimate of acts. This is the most human a human can be. My heart turns here. Pax becomes someone more to me in this moment. He is no longer simply a person I find attractive, a business partner, a person with whom I have a shared past, an uncertain future. He becomes a person whose soul intertwines with my own.
“I almost killed a man,” Pax whispers, wiping his wet face. He’s gasping for air. His regret is palpable.
“You changed your mind, though.” I run my fingers through his hair, soothing him. “That bullet fired into the ceiling, nowhere near Blanck. You didn’t do it.”
