The Lost Girl of Astor Street(53)

“He called me that night, when she hadn’t come home yet.” I try to make my voice sound casual, conversational. “He was upset.”

“He was.” Hannah wipes at her eyes with the back of her hands. “I was actually there when he called you. He and Mother had been talking in private, and then they called Sarah and me in. They told us what we already knew—that Lydia was sick—and she would be going to Minnesota for a while to try and get healthy. We talked for some time, and then he realized she should have been home by then.”

My focus blurs as I take in Lydia’s view of the back alley. So Dr. LeVine couldn’t have done it. He was with his wife and daughters, one of whom is so angry, she wouldn’t hesitate to point a finger. Relief soaks through me.

I sweep my gaze across Lydia’s desk. Her mementos are all in their normal places—the photograph of her grandmother, a vase full of seashells she collected when her family traveled to Florida, a stuffed bear I gave her back when we were children and she had the flu.

I know I told Mrs. LeVine I wouldn’t touch anything, but I can’t resist picking up the bear and letting the memories sweep over me. My mother had taken me to the toy store to purchase it for Lydia.

“Poor child,” Mother had said on our way. “Father off at war all year long, and now this wretched flu.”

I had been so disappointed that Mrs. LeVine wouldn’t let me give the bear to Lydia myself that I had cried. “It’s because she hates me.”

“No, Pippy.” Mother had cupped my face in her hands. “She doesn’t want you getting sick too. That’s all.”

I put the bear back on Lydia’s desk, eyes pooling from the memory of Mother’s touch.

“Matthew wouldn’t have done it.” Hannah’s words startle me—I had forgotten she was in the room. “He was in love with her.”

She looks at me then, as if waiting. I nod. “He was.”

Despite how her tone had invited no argument, her sigh seems relieved.

I slide open the drawer of Lydia’s desk. Everything seems to be in its place.

“What are you looking for?”

I think about all the ways I could answer Hannah. I decide to go with the truth. “Clues.”

“Clues of what? Who killed her?”

I wince at the word choice. “Yes.”

Or, if I’m being honest, I’m looking to find no clues. Because if her kidnappers were really after me, there should be no evidence that points to Lydia.

“Do you want to know who I think it might be?” Hannah’s voice is timid.

I turn to her, take in her porcelain doll face and round, blue eyes.

“If you don’t, it’s okay.” Hannah toys with the end of her braid. “Nobody else seems to care who I think it might be. Except for that detective. The cute one.”

I perch on the edge of the bed. “I would like to know, Hannah.”

“I don’t have any real evidence.” She sucks in a breath and draws her knees up to her chest. “It’s just a feeling.”

“That’s okay. Who?”

She swallows. “David Barrow,” she says to her knees. “Lydia didn’t like him. And Lydia liked everybody. I think that means something.”

“It definitely means he’s a real creep.” But why would he have killed her? What could he have gained from it?

“And she was supposed to be at his house,” Hannah continues in a volume barely above a whisper. “Couldn’t that be considered evidence?”

“I don’t know.” I think of Cole’s sullen behavior several weeks ago. I haven’t been to visit since the baby was born. Perhaps it’s time I do my neighborly duty and bring them a casserole.

My gaze drifts to Lydia’s nightstand, where a copy of Persuasion sits, forever unfinished.

“I hope, in heaven, she gets to find out how it ends,” Hannah says.

“I hope it’s too wonderful there for her to even care.” But there’s something unnerving about the thought—that everything that once mattered to Lydia may no longer—and I rush away from it. “You come get me if you ever need me, Hannah. Okay?”

She scrutinizes me, and for a moment I expect her to ask why I think she would need me. Or maybe to accuse me of not keeping Lydia safe when I knew she was sick. Instead she says. “Are you going after David?”

“I’m going to look into him, yes.”

Her expression relaxes. “Thank you.”

I close the door behind me as I retreat, leaving Hannah in the airless, suffocating room of her dead sister.

Downstairs, Mrs. LeVine’s smile is polite and pasted. “How was it, dear? Do you feel better?”

After weeks of sitting in my room, grieving and stewing and jumping at every creak in the house, Hannah has given me a direction to go.

“Yes,” I say. “I really do.”





CHAPTER


FOURTEEN


When I get home from walking Sidekick, Joyce springs on me that my brother won’t be home for dinner tonight, because he’s out on a date. A strange sense of betrayal billows up inside me. “What do you mean, he’s on a date?”

She blinks at me over the steaming pot of potatoes she’s mashing. “A date, Piper. Dinner, dancing.”