The Lost Girl of Astor Street(38)

Mariano gestures to a storefront—O’Connor’s Laundry. “Let’s try here.”

The air inside is hot, damp, and pungent with lye. The whir of machines and the slosh of water make me doubt anyone but Mariano hears the “Hello?” I call out.

But a few seconds later, a ginger-haired woman ambles out to the counter. Her eyes shift from me to Mariano and back to me. “Here to pick up?” Her accent is thickly Irish.

“Hi!” I put on a bright smile before remembering this isn’t like selling raffle tickets for the school carnival. “No, actually. We’re looking for someone.”

The woman rolls her eyes. Rolls her eyes. “Of course y’are. Ever since tat Detroit lass turned up on Clark Street, everyone’s come pokin’ around, looking for someone.”

“Yes, well.” I pull Lydia’s school picture from my bag. “All the same, my best friend was taken from our neighborhood, and I just wondered if you’d seen—”

“How daft are ya?” She doesn’t so much as glance at Lydia’s photograph. “You tink dey let dem girls walk around for us all to see?”

“There’s no need for name calling, ma’am.” Mariano’s words are clipped.

“If you could just look at her.” I move the picture into her line of vision. This woman can call me whatever she likes so long as she looks at the picture. “She’s really sick. It’s important that we find her.”

With a huff, the woman makes a show of looking at Lydia’s photograph. “Like I told ya—no. I ain’t never seen de girl. Only people who does see de girls is de ones who hires tem.”

Why didn’t I think of that? “Of course! Are there men here that I can ask?”

Her eyes become slits. “You want me to go get my God-fearing husband so you can ask him if he’s seen your friend?”

Embarrassment streaks up my neck and blooms on my cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply . . . I’m just very worried about my friend.”

“She ain’t here, and I got tings to do with my time.” The woman turns and waddles away, igniting my fury.

“Thanks so much for your concern!” I call after her, my voice lit with sarcasm. “Your effort really means a lot!”

But she pays no mind to me. “Is this really how people feel about someone who goes missing?” I jab open the door and march through. “That it isn’t their problem?”

“I know how personal this is to you, Piper.” Mariano’s voice is low and soothing in my ear. “But you have to stay clearheaded at a time like this, okay? If you stop thinking clearly, you start making mistakes.”

“What if it were them? Or their child?” My breath rattles in and out of me. Lydia’s photograph vibrates in my clutched fingers. “Will they all be like this? So callous to Lydia’s situation?” My voice morphs to some mocking tone that I don’t even recognize. “Well, it’s not my problem she got herself taken. It’s not my problem she has seizures.”

“Hey.” Mariano stands in front of me and snaps his fingers in front of my eyes. “Breathe, Piper.”

I tell myself to take deep breaths, but the air barely scrapes my windpipe before my body expels it, and I’m growing dizzier with each passing moment.

“Take a deep breath with me, okay?” Mariano fills my vision as he sucks in a deep inhale and then exhales out his mouth.

After several tries, I’m able to mirror his actions. The anger boiling in my chest fades to a simmer, and I realize my head is so still because Mariano’s hands have anchored it. His thumbs press into my cheekbones.

The pressure of his hold softens as my breathing regulates. “Better?”

I nod, and he releases me. My cheeks must be like neon lights. He won’t think me so strong now, will he?

I take one more deep breath before trusting myself to speak. “How long until the lunchroom opens?”

Mariano looks at me for a long moment, and I fear he’s about to ask if I’m really strong enough to go in there. But he glances at his watch. “About fifteen minutes. Let’s see what else is open up here and then head back.”

The butcher doesn’t recognize Lydia, but he’s kind about it. As is the tailor we speak to.

“You know who would be good to talk to?” The tailor rolls the end of the measuring tape around his finger. “The man who owns the lunchroom a few blocks down—Johnny Walker.”

“Why’s that?” Mariano asks before I can share that we were already on our way to see him.

“Well.” The tailor’s gaze skitters to me and then away. “It’s not really fittin’ for a lady’s ears.”

“I’m fine—”

Mariano flicks me a just go along with it kind of glance. “I’ll be right out, Piper.”

My chin juts, but I turn on my heel and stalk out the door without further protest. It won’t do Lydia any good for me to pout.

Outside, I lean against the brick building and let my gaze wander the rows of businesses. Where was Willa Mae? Behind one of those ordinary-looking windows? Is that where we’ll find Lydia too?

Mariano emerges a minute later, calling, “Thank you, Mr. Gorecki!” over his shoulder.

“So? What is it?” I trot alongside Mariano, who’s nudging me toward the lunchroom. “What’d he say?”