The Dollhouse(91)

“Not at all,” protested Rose. “I don’t presume to know what you’ve been through.”

The woman gave out a low moan. “You speak of blame. And you’re right. I deserve everything that’s happened to me. I destroyed lives. Including my own.”

“Don’t say that.”

Rose’s own despair was nothing compared to the years of torment her neighbor had been through. She looked at Jason in a panic, and he held up his hands. “No, we’re very sorry. We’re going now.”

“Don’t move a step. You want to see the damage? Is that what you want?”

Without ceremony, Esme pulled off the hat and veil and tossed them on the floor. What first struck Rose was the elegant line of her neck and head, like a ballet dancer’s. But the slashes from the knife had brutally disfigured the upper part of her face. A thick white gash cut across her forehead like a waxy centipede, and another crossed from the corner of her forehead, down across the bridge of her nose and below the eye, stopping at the top of her cheekbone. The skin around her nose and forehead was pulled taut and looked weirdly translucent, and one eye drooped at the corner. The blade had barely missed her greenish-gray eyes, which stared back at Rose with bitterness.

Rose kept her gaze steady. She needed to reach this woman, to make her see that she was not the enemy. “What happened to you was awful. You’ve suffered, and we think we understand what happened. Would it help to talk to us? We won’t publish anything, we won’t tell a soul.”

On the couch, Bird whimpered.

“You charge in here, take my dog, spread your things around.” Esme grabbed the urn from the windowsill and held it up with one hand. “Redecorating, were you?”

Horrified, Rose ran over and snatched it from her, holding it close to her chest. “No, it’s not like that.”

“Now you know what it feels like to have a stranger manhandle your belongings.”

Shame washed over her. She should have never camped out at the Barbizon after Griff kicked her out. What she’d done was unforgiveable.

“Rose, are those your father’s ashes?” Jason spoke quietly.

Rose nodded.

Esme’s eyes grew wide. “Her what?”

“Her father’s ashes.”

“Dear God.” Shaking her head, Esme sat back down in her chair, mouth slack. She looked at her empty hands. “Dear, dear God.”

“No, this was all my doing. I’m sorry. We’ll go now.” Rose stepped toward her suitcases.

“Stop.” Esme thrust out her chin. “Sit. I need a moment to think.”

They did as she commanded, side by side on the couch.

Rose held her breath.

“You are obviously in distress, Ms. Lewin, and I was once like you.” Esme lifted her head. “I’m going to tell you what you want to know. But only because I don’t know which of us needs this confession more.” She took a deep breath. “You. Or me.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE



New York City, Halloween 1952


Darby’s room was dark and quiet, a contrast to the hallway where girls in an assortment of costumes roamed, screeching with excitement as they readied for the evening’s delights. A light rain had begun to fall, tapping against the window like the snap of tiny rubber bands. Darby was already packed, thanks to Mother, and in little more than an hour, she would simply gather her things and go. She’d meet Sam at the station and they would begin a new life together, someplace far away.

But first, she had to try to find Esme. She remembered when they’d met. Esme had rolled her eyes and made faces as the elevator crawled upward, while Mrs. Eustis ticked off the rules of the hotel. Darby had been terrified that day, and Esme offered a lifeline with no expectation of kindness or reward. Only a coward would abandon a girl like that when the tables were turned.

Darby tucked the recording of the two of them singing in one side of her suitcase, where it wouldn’t break, and added her hairbrush and comb. That was it. She’d be traveling with a man who was not her husband, but that couldn’t really be helped, given the situation. She wanted Sam to be safe, and if he had to leave the city, she would be by his side.

As she made to leave the room to search for her friend, the door opened and Esme flew in.

Darby almost fell into the bureau, shaking with surprise. And relief. “Esme.”

Esme ran into her arms and they held each other for a moment. “Are you ready to hit the big time?”

“What?” Darby pulled back.

Esme’s skin was shiny with sweat, her eyes wide. “I stopped by earlier but couldn’t find you. Where have you been?”

“Talking with Sam. About you.”

She studied Darby’s face. “I see you’ve heard the news. The police screwed me. Royally.”

“Sam showed me the article. You talked about babies being given heroin; did you really see that happen?”

Esme shrugged. “I live in the slum. Of course that’s what I see.”

Darby should never have assumed Esme’s world in any way mirrored her own. She’d seen more foulness in her life so far than Darby probably ever would. She pulled Esme down to sit on the bed. “Why would you work for Kalai in the first place?”

“You saw those louts. I had to; it was part of my job at the club. Buckley knew it; everyone knew it. No surprise there. Why do you think the Flatted Fifth was so popular? Because it was an easy place to score. And I needed cash, in order to get all decked out and make a scene. I couldn’t do it if I looked average. Glamour ain’t cheap.”