The Lost Girl of Astor Street(33)

Jeremiah’s mouth curls into a smile. A real smile, not his rakish grin or the closed-mouth pitying one from when he arrived. “Piper.”

I try to smile back at him, but I’m not sure I succeed. This should have been an exciting moment, having Jeremiah Crane drop by. We would have talked over superficial things, perhaps. The baseball season and Bessie Smith and Agatha Christie’s latest novel. I would have called Lydia and giggled with her. She would have preached to me out of our etiquette textbook on what to say and how to smile.

But instead, his first visit is somber and dark.

“Have the police any leads?” Emma’s voice breaks into my mental wanderings. Was I just sitting here staring off? “We had detectives come to our house, the same ones who were at school that day. But they weren’t sharing details, of course.”

“They’ve talked to all the neighbors in hope that someone saw something. But so far, no one did.”

“In a neighborhood like ours, doesn’t it seem unlikely?” There’s a suspicious tinge in Emma’s voice.

I think I like her.

“I agree.” Jeremiah settles against the back of the couch, looking so relaxed, I half expect him to loosen his tie. “If nothing else, you’d think Mrs. Applegate would have seen something. When I was a kid, Mama always said she never had to worry, because Mrs. Applegate had an eye on me at all times.”

“That’s because you’re trouble from the tips of your hair to the toes on your feet, brother dear.”

Jeremiah winks at me. “Everybody seems like trouble when compared to you, sweet Emma.”

I feel like I should jest back, but the part of me that knows how to be witty and flirtatious has been crowded out by emotions like dread and anxiety. “Jeremiah, did you take many notes during your conversation with Willa Mae? I would be interested in seeing them.”

The smiles on their faces fade.

“Yes, I took lots of notes.” His words are careful. “But I don’t know how helpful they would be if your hope is to find Lydia.”

“I just thought there might be something in there. Does she know who kidnapped her? What happened after that? Did she ever see any of the other girls, or was she isolated?”

Jeremiah’s gaze is steady on me. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks to Emma and then back at me. “The details that I didn’t put in the article . . . they’re so ill-suited for the public. I wouldn’t want to put you in the troubling position of reading them, Piper.”

“You’re not putting me in it. I’m asking it of you.”

“But you don’t know what’s in there. I do. And I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Silence descends on the room. I hold Jeremiah’s gaze until he looks away.

Emma stands. “We should be going. I’m sure you don’t feel like entertaining. We just wanted you to know we’re thinking about you.”

Jeremiah stands as well.

“Thank you.” My words are stiff, despite my sincerity. “Hopefully, next time we get together, we’ll be celebrating her return.”

Kindness shines in Emma’s eyes. “I pray diligently for Lydia to be returned home safely.”

Tears—which seem so much closer to the surface than ever before—spring in my eyes. “Thank you, Emma. I’ve started to feel as though I’m the only one who still thinks she’ll be found . . .” The tightness in my chest won’t let me squeeze out the word alive. It’s a wonderful word that I should be able to shout—alive!—but it’s lodged in my lungs.

When Jeremiah’s fingertips graze the underside of my elbow, I know I faded out on them again. “Telephone if you need anything. Anything at all.”

I look at him, the fellow who’s antagonized me on a regular basis for the last year, yet now extends comfort in some of the darkest days I’ve ever known. “I need Lydia.”

The words are raw, and if I had more sense of myself, I would probably want to snatch them back and shove them away. But I don’t care that Jeremiah looks at me with pity or that Emma’s eyes shine with tears. My sense of pride is so far gone that I don’t even care that they might still be able to hear me when I close the front door behind them, slide to the floor, and sob.





CHAPTER


EIGHT


Lots of Presley’s girls take the L.”

But Father only repeats, “Walter will drive you,” and underlines a sentence on the document he’s reading.

“But—”

Father sits up straight in his desk chair and gives me a stern look. “I know you’re practically a grown woman, and that before too many more months you’ll be away at college, but for now, I need to know you’re being watched over at all times. Can you understand that?”

His face may be stern, but his eyes are full of fear.

“Yes, Father,” I murmur.

“Thank you.” He reaches for his cup of black coffee. “Is there anything else?”

I think of him slack-jawed with sleep, a gun at his side, and his chair swiveled expectantly toward the front door. If I don’t ask him, the questions will keep pestering me.

“The first night we knew about Lydia, I came downstairs in the middle of the night.” I glance at him. He’s watching me, mouth pressed in a line. “You were asleep in your chair. You had your gun with you.”