The Address(52)

Christopher, her grandfather, had carried a chip on his shoulder all his life because he’d been brought up to believe he was an equal when really he was not. Jack had inherited that same chip.

To be perfectly honest, she had as well. She wanted desperately to be related to a killer, because then there was a chance she was really a Camden.

In which case, the circumstances that shamed her, growing up in a rundown neighborhood in a sad shore town, would not apply.

“Look, Dad. I’ve been having some trouble lately. Not now, not anymore. But earlier this year. That’s why I haven’t reached out.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“With drinking. That kind.”

“Your grandfather was a nasty drunk. Hope you don’t mean that kind.” His eyes were guarded.

A family history of alcoholism. She’d been told that was likely in rehab. It must’ve been bad if Jack had never mentioned it before. He obviously didn’t want to revisit the issue now.

“It’s no big deal. Everything’s fine.”

“I’m sure you have a lot on your plate.” He eyed the oven clock. “I have an early start tomorrow. What time do you want to get dropped off at the train?”

His dismissal landed hard, like a blow to her gut. She turned the conversation back to the auto shop and busied herself with the dishes. Her father was disappointed by her lack of fortitude, and her first response was to do something, anything, to assuage his discomfort. To smooth down her own rough edges in order to keep the peace.

In any event, he wasn’t interested in the story of her addiction. Or he knew what was coming and didn’t want to hear it without her mom by his side to soften the blow. Jack wasn’t that type of parent, never had been. Not interested in the hard stuff. Why should he be, since she’d not taken much interest in his life at all these past many years? She’d tackled the big world and figured he’d stay as he was, inaccessible and immovable as a figure in a snow globe.

She dried her hands with a dishrag. “Don’t worry about tomorrow morning, Dad. I’ll call a cab. I’m going to head upstairs now, dig around for some winter stuff to bring back to the city.”

“All right, then. Thanks for the birthday treat.”

“A sub and a Snickers. I’ll do better next year, I promise.” She crept up the stairs and rummaged around as he locked up the house. She could hear his heavy footfalls as he went from room to room, checking windows, closing latches, when the worst had already happened.

In the upstairs hallway, she lifted the drawing off its hook, wrapped it in a sweater, and stashed it in her bag. Jack wouldn’t even miss it, if he’d ever even noticed it in the first place.

Bailey retreated to her room and closed the door. Jack paused for a moment when he finally came up, but her soft “Hello” was answered by the click of his own bedroom door closing.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN



New York City, January 1885


Something wasn’t right. The week prior, Sara had headed to the Westlakes’ apartment on the third floor only to find herself lost on the other side of the building, saved by Mr. O’Connor, one of the elevator operators, who pointed her in the right direction. The blunder had left her shaken. She knew the corridors of the Dakota better than anyone, save Theo and Fitzroy.

Sara’s stomach problems had only gotten worse, and she’d been unable to eat more than a few bites each meal, leaving her weak. The weakness made her even less inclined to eat, and around and around she went, a downward spiral of malaise. If she called for the doctor, she’d have to tell the truth about her condition, which would take her away from the Dakota and Theo and everything she’d worked so hard for. Her fragility compounded her confusion.

To make matters worse, two days ago, Mrs. Camden had reported an emerald necklace missing from her jewelry box. Mr. Douglas had insisted that Sara grill the staff, but she had to quit halfway through questioning the maids because she couldn’t seem to find the right words. The silly woman had probably mislaid it in any case. Surely, it would turn up on its own.

This morning she’d barely been able to rise from her bed and had had to steady herself as she splashed water on her face. She’d staggered into her office and remained there the rest of the day, unsure where the time had gone and petrified she would not be able to get back to her room. At four o’clock, Daisy popped her head into the office.

“You look rather green.” She closed the door.

“I’m not at my best,” admitted Sara. “Did your mother ever get confused when she was with child?”

Daisy shrugged. “Sure. With Mickey, I remember, she would ask the same question over and over.”

“What question was that?”

“‘What did I ever do to deserve such ungrateful children?’”

Sara laughed in spite of herself. She couldn’t imagine her own mother ever teasing like that. “You were lucky; she sounds like she was a charming lady.”

“Yes.” A flicker of sadness crossed the girl’s features.

Someone knocked on the door. “Come in.”

Daisy opened the door to reveal Mr. Douglas.

Sara stood. “Mr. Douglas, how may I help you?”

“I’m here to see the books, of course. It’s Tuesday.” He placed his hat and coat on the rack near the door and lumbered over.