The Lost Girl of Astor Street(20)

My knees tremble as I stand. “Please tell Mrs. LeVine I said farewell.”

His nod is curt. I collect my belongings in the entryway and walk out the front door into the peony-scented afternoon. Only then, when I can breathe easier, do I realize how life-sucking the fear within their home had been.




“I’m walking around back to have a word with Matthew. You don’t have to come.”

Walter glowers beneath the brim of his flat cap. “You really think I’m going to let you go anywhere alone?”

I study Walter. He’s already puffed himself up to his full height and breadth. He morphs into big brother mode faster than the two who are my brothers by blood. “But I don’t know how keen he’ll be on talking if you’re with me.”

Walter crosses his arms over his chest. “You’ll have to find out, because I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“Fine.” I thunder down the stairs. The LeVines’ house is too close to the neighbors’ to get to the alley—we’ll have to go around the corner.

“Look, Piper.” Walter takes hold of my arm as we walk. “I’ll take you to see Matthew, but after this, you need to just stay out of the way and let the detectives handle things.”

My jaw tightens.

“Piper.” Walter’s tone is somber. “I want to know you’re safe.”

“And I want to know Lydia is safe.”

Matthew is where I hoped we’d find him, in the company of only the Deusenberg and a bucket of soapy water. He pauses his work as we approach, but he doesn’t look wary or embarrassed or anything useful. He looks like stoic Matthew. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up on his tanned forearms, and he squints in the afternoon sunlight.

“What can I do for you, Miss Sail?”

The questions that have spun in my mind since Detective Cassano told me Lydia had been reported missing—is she with Matthew? Did she run off with him?—tangle in my mouth. As I look at him, his round face, his even gaze, the slight creases fanning from the corners of his eyes, new questions form. How old is Matthew? And where is he from? Besides being quiet and polite, what do we really know about him?

“You’ve come to ask me about Miss LeVine.” His words are matter-of-fact.

“Yes.” I force myself to say it louder. “Yes.”

Matthew’s nostrils flare with his exhale, and he swipes his sudsy rag across the top of the car. “If only she’d asked me to drive her. I’d have driven her six inches if it meant she was with someone. A girl in Lydia’s condition shouldn’t be left alone.”

My stomach pitches, and I brace myself against the hot car. “Matthew, do you mean . . .” Tears swell inside me. “Does that mean . . . ?”

Matthew pauses. Waits.

“Do you not know where she is?” Emotion pulses with every syllable.

“’Course I don’t, Miss Sail.” It’s the first time I’ve ever heard Matthew sound offended. “You can’t honestly think I’d have anything to do with this.”

“I thought . . . I mean, Lydia told me that . . .” My inhales and exhales are involuntary bursts, as if I ran to the LeVines’ house. “I had hoped that maybe you and Lydia had . . .”

His expression is like a giant question mark.

“Run off together.”

“Miss Sail . . .” Red splotches bloom on Matthew’s cheeks. “I’m . . . I’m flattered, I suppose. But you can’t possibly think your Miss LeVine would have any interest in a fella like me.”

“But she told me she was going to tell you.” My words are coming out high and gaspy again.

Matthew’s eyes are trained on the hood of the car. “Tell me what?”

“That she loves you.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “No disrespect intended, Miss, but I think you must be all balled up.”

“I’m not. Lydia loves you. When she left my house yesterday, she said she was coming home to tell you. I watched her walk through the gate.”

Matthew looks at me, mouth downturned and eyes brimming. He looks as though he pities me. “She must have been teasing you.”

“Lydia doesn’t believe in teasing.”

“Then it must’ve been a misunderstanding.”

“It wasn’t a misunderstanding.” I stomp my foot. “If she’s not with you, Matthew, then where is she? Where is she?”

Walter is here, his thick arms around me, holding me back. “It’s okay, Pippy.”

“She didn’t tell him.” My words are a blubbery mess against the shirt I bought only yesterday. “She never told him. They’re not together, she’s just . . . gone.”

My mind plays out ugly scenarios—Lydia snatched from the street. Lydia crying for help, calling for me, but I’m oblivious inside my house. Lydia terrified and unable to fight off her captors.

“I’m sorry I made things worse.” Matthew’s words are hoarse.

Walter’s arms gather me against him and squeeze. “Piper was holding on to hope.”

“We’re all trying to. I’m sorry, Miss Sail.” Through my blurred eyes, I find Matthew regarding me with more emotion than I thought him capable. “I’m sorry I didn’t keep her safe.”