The Lost Girl of Astor Street(17)

Walter’s hold on me tightens as he turns to the detective. “Is it really necessary to question her?”

Walter knows? But of course; the news is probably all over the neighborhood.

Detective Cassano spares a glance for Walter. “Seeing as she’s Miss LeVine’s best friend, I assumed Miss Sail wouldn’t mind providing information.”

“And you couldn’t do it in the privacy of her own home?” Walter’s words come through clenched teeth.

Walter is making such a scene that most Presley’s girls have given up covertly observing and now openly stare. That stupid Mae Husboldt giggles behind her hand.

I tug at Walter’s sleeve. “Calm down. I’m happy to answer his questions.”

Detective Cassano angles his body away from Walter. “Miss Sail, back to what you were saying about Matthew. Were the two of them romantically involved?”

I can feel Walter gaping at me. “Not exactly. Lydia liked him, but I think I was the only one who knew. Except last night . . .” My hands tremble, and I clasp them together. “When she left my house, she said she was going to tell Matthew how she felt. I think she was hoping for a date. She said she would call me to tell me how it went, but she never did.”

The detective glances at me, his eyes perceptive like a bird of prey, but also somehow compassionate. “Had you noticed, or had she mentioned, anyone suspicious hanging around?”

“No.”

“What about strange behavior from people she knew? Her mother? Father? Sisters?”

“No. Everyone had been very normal.”

He seems to hesitate a moment. “Even Matthew?”

“Matthew seemed fine. He was quiet, but Matthew is always quiet.”

Without looking up from the notes he’s taking, he asks, “Even with Lydia?”

I attempt a calming breath, but the air shakes as it comes in and out. “Whenever I was around them, yes.”

Detective Cassano holds my gaze as he reaches into his breast pocket. He hands me a thick, cream-colored card. “Here’s the number at the station. If you think of anything else we should know, please call and have them put you through to Detective O’Malley or myself.”

It isn’t until I reach for the card that I realize my hand still trembles. Detective Cassano presses the card into my palm, and then grasps my hand, steadying it. “We’re going to do everything we can to get your friend back, Miss Sail. I know it’s hard, but try not to worry. We take every case seriously, but as I said, many turn into nothing.”

The world around him—my classmates, the flowering trees, the bright blue sky—is framed in black. I remind myself to take a breath. “Thank you, detective.”

He tips his hat at me and jogs up the stairs to the front door.

Walter’s fingertips press into my shoulders. “C’mon, Piper. Let’s get you home.”

My brain buzzes with an incoherent mess of thoughts—Lydia’s smile as she waved farewell to me yesterday, the dreamy look on her face as she considered purchasing cufflinks for Matthew, the way she asked to have my support.

If he asked me to marry him today, I’d have no hesitation saying yes. Her words keep echoing in my head.

Walter tucks me inside Father’s Chrysler. I gaze up the emerald lawn of Presley’s, across which Jeremiah guides Emma to his car. He must see me looking, because he offers a small wave. I wave back.

“I hate that I was late.” Walter yanks his door closed. “Mrs. Lincoln caught me as I was walking out to the car, and she wanted to talk all about Lydia. You know how she is.” He turns to face me. “How are you? Did that detective scare you?”

I take a deep breath. Detective Cassano’s card is still grasped in my hand, and I stare at it. “I’m alarmed, of course. But he can’t help that.”

“He shouldn’t have talked to you at school. He should have waited until you were home.”

“I think he just happened to see me there. They were there for the headmistress, not me.”

“Still.” Walter faces forward and jabs the shifter into gear. “It’s inconsiderate.”

“Have they spoken to Matthew yet? Is he home?”

“I don’t know.” Walter gives me a sidelong glance as he edges the car into traffic. “So Lydia and Matthew?”

“Kind of. I mean, that’s what she wanted, and I never could talk her out of it. She wouldn’t listen to me. And now this.”

Whatever this is.

“Matthew is a good man. He wouldn’t have run off with her.” Then a moment later, “I don’t think so, anyway.”

But an even worse thought percolates within me. If she didn’t run off with Matthew . . . where is she?

I shake the dark thought away. There’s no reason to think along those lines. Not yet. “Let’s stop at the LeVines’. I want to see how I can help.”

I want to look in her armoire and see that clothes are missing. That Persuasion is no longer on her bedside table. And I want to see that she’s left my coat—which she would never be careless enough to take with her—folded neatly on her bed with a note tucked in the pocket. Next time I see you, I’ll be Matthew’s wife! it might read.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Piper. The police were there a lot of the day, the street has been crawling with reporters, and the LeVines are likely exhausted. Why don’t you telephone them instead?”