The Lost Girl of Astor Street(18)

“I don’t want to telephone them.” The pitch of my voice climbs higher with each word. “I want to go there and figure out what’s going on.”

“It will all be okay, Pippy.” Walter reaches for my hand and crushes it in his. “It really will.”

I avert my gaze out the window, to the high rises of Lake Shore Drive that Matthew drove me by just the day before. I try to believe Walter, but fear clogs my throat. I’m not going to cry. Not when there are dozens of possibilities as to where Lydia could be right now.

I wipe away an insistent tear.

Okay, so I might cry a little, but I’m not going to fall apart. I clamp my teeth over my trembling lower lip. It’s going to be okay. That’s what Walter said, anyway.

But I find I can’t even allow myself to trust Walter.




Joyce opens the front door as I dash up the patio steps. She folds her arms around me, and I stand stiff in her embrace, unable to lean in. The rough fabric of her work dress rubs against my cheek, and I soak in the lavender and lye scents that cling to her.

“I know, honey,” she says in my ear.

Father, Jane, and Nick sit in the living room wearing somber faces. Nick’s eyes are red and puffy.

“Oh, Piper, you poor darling.” Jane rushes to me, arms outstretched. The scalloped tiers of her velvet afternoon dress sway, and her floral scent clouds my head as she cups my face in her hands. “How are you, dear?”

Her hazel eyes stare into mine with a pity that pokes to life a fire in my belly.

“I’m fine.” The words are louder, sharper than I anticipate. “We don’t know anything yet, so there’s no reason to not be fine.”

Jane’s fingers stiffen against my skin, but if she’s hurt, she covers it with a smile. “Yes, that’s right. It’s frightening, of course, but it’s premature to be too alarmed.”

Father fits his arm around my shoulders, causing Jane’s hands to fall away. Her fussy scent is replaced by that of pipe smoke. “The police will want to talk to you, dear—”

“They already have.” Walter’s gruff voice breaks into the conversation. “I got there late, and one of the detectives was grilling her.”

“He was only asking questions.” I look up to Father. “Have you spoken to the LeVines?”

He nods. “I left a message with their housekeeper, conveying our sympathies and our willingness to help however we can.”

“I’d like to go over there—”

“Absolutely not, Piper. We’re not going to intrude on them during this difficult time.”

“Your father is right.” Jane loops her bejeweled arm through Father’s. “We want you right here, where we can be sure you’re safe.”

“I’ll bring Walter with me. It’s three houses away.”

“It doesn’t even take that much sometimes.” Nick’s raw voice enters the conversation. “I read this case in class last week where—”

“Son.” Father shakes his head. “Not now.”

Nick paces to the couch and perches on the edge. Then he stands, mutters something that involves the word “smoke,” and heads out back.

Father squeezes my shoulders. “Your heart is in the right place, Piper, and there’ll be a time to pay a visit. I just don’t think it’s today.”

“Excuse me.” Joyce’s low voice cuts into the conversation. “But the LeVines telephoned earlier, asking that Piper please come over when she returned from school.”

I feel everyone’s gaze on me as I look up at Father. He works his lower lip back and forth and his blue eyes are unfocused, two clear signs that he’s thinking this over. His mind is so creative in its logic, that even now when I have a clear request from the LeVines, I find myself bracing for Father to come at this from an angle I can’t anticipate, to still find a way to keep me home.

But all he says is, “Take Walter with you.”




With its limestone bricks, tall bay windows, and the fleurs-de-lis carved in the arch over the door, the LeVines’ house creates a grander impression than ours. It’s the type of place where even the details are maintained—bushes pruned into shape, toys tucked away, books dusted and spines aligned on shelves.

Tabitha answers my knock with downcast eyes and no smile.

“I’ll wait out here for you,” Walter says, and I don’t bother to argue.

Tabitha takes my hat and handbag. “They’re in the living room.”

The air is too warm and absent of the lemony, clean smell I associate with the LeVines. I never knew that fear had a feel, but I know now that Tabitha has closed the door. Fear is sticky. Suffocating.

Dr. and Mrs. LeVine are in their respective chairs, though they’ve been dragged from the front window to the phone table, which sits between them. Dr. LeVine has a collection of papers in his lap, and Mrs. LeVine clutches a hankie, which she twists this way and that. It’s the closest I’ve ever seen her come to sitting idle.

When Mrs. LeVine sees me, she rises to her feet, wraps her arms around me in a tight hug, and weeps. Mrs. LeVine, who rarely shows emotion during Lydia’s seizures. Who thinks I’m a bad influence on her daughters. Who sometimes winces—albeit discreetly—when she comes home and finds I’m at the house.