The Lost Girl of Astor Street(52)

“I said almost the exact same thing to Dr. LeVine just a few days ago. He tells me that even if they caught Matthew and sentenced him for it, it wouldn’t change anything. That it’s best for us to try to move past what happened.” She mops her eyes once more. “He’s right, of course. But what about the next family that man dupes? You know how it is with these sorts.”

Or is there perhaps another reason Dr. LeVine doesn’t want Matthew found and questioned? A motive for why he doesn’t want Matthew’s innocence to come to light? I can’t imagine that these flimsy, patched-together stories about Matthew being a loose cannon could really satisfy a man like Dr. LeVine, who prides himself on scientific facts and details.

“I have a favor to ask, Mrs. LeVine.” I settle my cup back into its saucer. Hopefully, Mrs. LeVine won’t notice the way my hand trembles.

“Of course, my dear. What is it?”

The way Mrs. LeVine looks at me, with tenderness instead of reproach, still unsettles me. “I wonder if you’d please let me go up to Lydia’s room.”

Mrs. LeVine’s eyes widen.

“Only for a minute or two. I just . . .” I fold my hands in my lap. “With the casket being closed, I don’t feel like I ever really got to say good-bye. And I just wondered . . . I wouldn’t touch anything, I promise.”

Mrs. LeVine nods slowly. “If you promise to leave it all exactly where it is, then yes.” She smooths imaginary wrinkles from the long, crisp skirt of her dress. “I understand why you’re asking, Piper.”

My heart hiccups in my chest. Does she?

“After the funeral, I spent more hours in that room than anywhere else. Even now, I often go up there for an hour or so. Sometimes, I even talk to her.” Mrs. LeVine chuckles. “That’s rubbish, isn’t it? I’ve never been the sort to believe in spirits. Still, I can’t deny that I feel better after I’ve been up there. So, of course, Piper. Take your time.”

Take your time. Such beautiful words, ones I hadn’t been sure I could count on. “Thank you, Mrs. LeVine.”




I stand outside Lydia’s closed door for a while. I don’t know how long, really. I wish I remembered the last time I was in here, that I had some great memory to carry with me. Though it may be good that I don’t. One less thing to become tainted.

I place my hand on the gold doorknob and turn. The door opens noiselessly.

“Hello.”

I gasp and take a step backward.

Hannah, stretched out on Lydia’s frilly white bed, props herself up on her elbows. “What are you doing in here?”

“Your mother said it would be okay. I didn’t realize you’d be here, sorry.” I reach for the doorknob to shut the door as I exit.

“You can stay. I don’t mind.” Hannah lays back down. “Sarah doesn’t like to come up here. She thinks it’s creepy. But I like it. I feel as if she’s here. That if I listen hard, she’ll talk to me.”

The room is too warm and airless. Contrary to Hannah’s impression, it seems as though the life has been suctioned out. And yet the Lydia-ness of the space nearly undoes me. Like my room, Lydia’s is mostly pink. Unlike my room, it actually suits her. The frothy white curtains, the rosebud wallpaper, the pink gingham pillows.

“Will you please tell me what she was sick with?” Hannah’s voice seems to glisten with tears. “Mother and Father still won’t talk about it. They say it doesn’t matter now.”

I think of the china tea service downstairs, of the way Mrs. LeVine has been so kind to me. But Hannah’s swimming eyes win. “She had seizures. Lots of them.”

I pace the length of the room, taking it in. Lydia’s knitting basket sits by a rocking chair, all the supplies tucked neatly inside. The armoire drawers are shut tight, as are the dresser drawers. The books are orderly on her bookshelves, alphabetized, spines aligned.

“Did you ever see one? Mother and Tabitha always shooed us out. Said she needed space to recover.”

“I saw two.” I turn from the window to Hannah’s watchful blue eyes. “They were terrifying. You should feel thankful.”

Hannah’s jawline hardens, and she looks back at the ceiling. “I only feel angry. She shouldn’t have been alone. If I had known, I would have walked with her.”

“I wish all the time that I would have.”

“Father’s the one to blame.”

Hannah’s dark words make ice crawl up my back. I look at her. At thirteen, her body is still a girl’s, and there’s a hint of childlike roundness to her face. But her words are sharp like an adult’s. “Why do you say that, Hannah?”

“He cared more about his stupid medical practice than he did Lydia’s health.”

I clamp my teeth over my lower lip, holding in the questions that want to spill out. I need to let Hannah talk.

“I even heard him say that to Mother one night.” Hannah shifts her gaze from the ceiling to me. “That he should’ve sent her to the Mayo Clinic earlier. That he felt guilty and responsible.”

“And what did your mother say?”

“That he wasn’t. But I can’t get over thinking that he was.”

Where was he the night she went missing? I knew what he had told Mariano, of course, but I wanted to hear it verified by his angry daughter. A daughter who had no problems accusing him of caring more about his reputation than his family.