In some ways, that might be even worse.
This thing between us was only ever meant to be temporary. A way for us each to dip our toes into intimacy as the people we’re working to become, a sort of ephemeral period that could act as a bridge between our pasts and our futures. Cal might think he wants to stop, smack-dab in the middle, and I must admit that I’ve been tempted by the idea too. But Nicole walking into Virtu today, inadvertently revealing to me that the illegal dead goose I’ve been chasing around the city is hers and Cal never bothered mentioning it, was the timely reminder I needed that there isn’t a strong enough foundation beneath our feet to make it safe to linger here.
Catoctin, Maryland— September 1908
They couldn’t findthe goose after that morning. Two days of searching from dawn till dusk, and they had nothing to show for their efforts.
“Perhaps Albus is visiting a neighboring town. Had some business to attend to and will return shortly,” John posited. Ora knew he was only trying to keep her spirits up, but the levity struck her as artificial and she found no humor in it.
She recognized other geese around the pond as part of Albus’s gaggle, including the one she’d come to believe during their hours of observation was his mate. Yet the distinctive white-and-taupe goose had simply vanished.
Or perhaps he’d been taken.
Ora had a theory that had been growing in the back of her mind and finally pushed itself to the front. Her memory kept returning to the moment in the newspaper office when Ledford’s gaze had dwelled on something near her—something onJohn’s desk. The watercolor versions of his field sketches had been drying there, hadn’t they?
She’d foolishly bragged about having discovered something wonderful, and Ledford must have figured out exactly what it was. If he’d spotted John’s illustrations, all he had to do was ask around town to learn that the leucistic goose was a frequent visitor to the Steubens’ farm, make his way there, and—
“My love,” John said, taking her hands in his as she went cold and still beside him, “what is it?”
“He’s won,” she said quietly, her chest constricting under the assault of her devastation. “Ledford has beaten us.”
THIRTY-THREE
Callahan
“Do you knowwhy I’ve pulled you over today, sir?” the trooper—Dominic Vincenti, according to the name tag pinned to the chest of his light blue uniform shirt—asks after handing me back my license and registration.
My initial conclusion while he was running my ID was that Vincenti somehow saw the goose in the backseat as I passed by and clocked it as contraband. But between the slight tint of the window, the quilt still covering part of it, and the unlikelihood of this particular state trooper knowing much about bird law, I am probably just being paranoid. It’s with a great wave of relief that seems counterintuitive to the circumstances that I realize that I was almost definitely speeding. “No?” I try anyway.
“You were going seventy-six miles per hour. The limit here is sixty-five.”
“Oh. Well. Shit. I didn’t realize.” I consider mentioning that there hadn’t been a sign in several miles, or that I was only going along with the flow of traffic, but I’m certain he hears bothexcuses frequently enough that it will annoy him much more than it will help my case.
“It’s your job as a driver to realize,” he says.
“Yes. I understand that.”
“Good. Now, I saw that you haven’t been stopped for anything more than a burned-out tag light in the last five years. Since you don’t seem to make a habit of this, Mr. Leitner, I’m going to let you off with a warning. But I need you to be more aware of the posted speed limit going forward.”
“Of course. I will. Thank you.” I take the proffered warning slip from his hand.
“You have a good day, and drive safe,” he says as he turns toward his police cruiser. But before I can even exhale the breath I’ve been anxiously keeping bottled up in my lungs, Vincenti stops midstep beside my car. My heart jumps up my throat as he cups his hands around his eyes and leans against the glass of the back window. He reappears beside me.
“S-something the matter?” I ask.
“Mr. Leitner, is that a goose in your backseat?”
I consider lying, but he’s obviously seen the damn thing. “Yes.”
“A dead one?”
“Er, yes.”
“And do you have the proper permit for that?”
“I…do not happen to have that available at the moment. But it’s okay! I can explain. I’m actually on my way to the American Museum of Natural History, up in New York City. It’s theirs. I’m returning it to their collections.”
He holds up a hand, signaling me to stop talking. Which is probably in my best interest anyway.
