The Lost Girl of Astor Street(35)

“Piper, stop.”

“I want somebody to have this information.” I clutch close the paper on which I scribbled my plan this morning. “If you don’t want it, then I’ll leave it taped under the headmistress’s desk, and if something goes awry—”

“I’m coming with you.”

I’m glad Mariano isn’t here to see the surprise on my face. “That’s not necessary, Mariano. I don’t expect you to drop what you had planned to—”

“My job right now is to recover Lydia LeVine. I would rather not lose you in the process.”

The thought of Mariano coming with me, of not having to venture into Johnny’s Lunchroom alone, makes relief slide through my veins. Yet my words still come out razor-sharp. “You won’t show up looking like a cop, will you? Because I don’t see that helping me any.”

“If you promise you’ll wait at school for me, I promise I won’t blow your cover, Detective Sail.”

I glance at the clock. It’s definitely time to get out of here. “There’s a bench at the corner of Irving and Lake Shore. I’ll meet you there.” Footsteps echo in the hall again. “And if by chance I’m not there, come into the school and tell them I’m needed for something.”

I hang up before he responds.

And just a second before the headmistress opens the door to her office.

The surprise on her face is quickly replaced with fury, and a deep crease forms between her silver eyebrows as she scowls at me. “Miss Sail—”

My response is a reflex. I cover my face with my hands and burst into loud, fake tears.

“I know I shouldn’t be in here, but it’s just so awful, ma’am. I can’t stand it, I can’t.” I don’t let myself peek. I don’t want her seeing that my cheeks are dry. “It feels so terrible to be at Presley’s without Lydia. She loves it here so much. She views you as a role model.” Was that too much? Too late now . . . “And I just feel closer to her when I’m in your office.”

Behind my hands, I squeeze my eyes tight, pushing out a dribble of tears before I risk uncovering my face.

Headmistress Robinson’s expression has softened. It’s still not soft by any stretch, but the crease between her brows is gone.

“I know you and Miss LeVine are very close.” She glances at the two wooden chairs in her office, the ones for students, but remains standing. “Her disappearance is a shock to us all. If you feel you are unfit for school, Miss Sail, I suggest you go home. If, however, you decide that crying and feeling sorry for yourself will not do anybody any good, you may head to your first class.”

This woman is a stone.

Or aware that I’m faking.

Here she is, practically gift wrapping a reason for me to walk out the school doors, but my pride buckles with the implication of weakness. “I’ll go to my class, thank you.” I rise, back straight and chin jutted.

I skirt around her at the door, inhaling the smell of peppermint candy, which she uses to cover up her cigarette habit. I feel her cold, suspecting gaze follow me down the hallway.

The most discreet exit is in the back, by the lunchroom, which is empty. I help myself to two chicken sandwiches in the ice box and tuck them into my sack. I duck into the pantry and wriggle out of my uniform, which I wore over a pale blue day dress that matches the color of Lydia’s eyes. I had originally dressed in a dull gray, hoping to ward off unwanted male attention, and then realized if I intended to flirt answers out of anyone, I would need to look at least somewhat fetching.

I jam my discarded Presley’s uniform into the bag, along with the sandwiches, a notebook, Lydia’s senior portrait, and several other items that seemed like they might be helpful—a length of rope, a roll of tape, and Nick’s pocket knife, which I hope he has no occasion to miss today. I hesitate a second before pulling it from the bag and tucking it into my pocket. The thought of using it sends a shiver through me . . . but so does the thought of being caught unprepared.

With the shopping bag secured over my shoulder, I slip out the back door and into the crisp morning air.

The bench is unoccupied, and I take a seat. I lost track of time while putting on my show for Ms. Robinson. Will Mariano drive or take the train? He better not show up here in the touring sedan that Jeremiah so easily identified as being a detective’s vehicle . . .

My thoughts roam the afternoon ahead. Walking to the train station with Mariano, finding Johnny’s Lunchroom. This makes my stomach twist with a different brand of anxiety than I felt when I imagined doing this alone. Aside from my brothers and Walter, I’ve never spent extended time alone in a man’s company. Not that this is a date in even the loosest interpretation of the word, but that doesn’t keep my stomach from feeling like a rag that someone has grabbed either end of and twisted tight.

Ten minutes pass before I catch sight of Mariano. I never noticed how distinct his gait is—he has a sort of swagger to him, arms loose at his side, shoulders squared. I sling the shopping bag over my shoulder and rush down the sidewalk.

But when I reach him, I’m unable to speak. I want to tell him thank you for coming, thank you for letting me interrupt your day, but the words catch in my throat.

He sticks his hands in his trouser pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Am I holding up under scrutiny, Detective? I did my best to not look like a cop, but I’m afraid there’s only so much a man can do to disguise his true identity.”