The Lost Girl of Astor Street

by Stephanie Morrill

  “If he’s the owner of The Kansas City Star, yes.”

  “He is. But are you sure she said she was his daughter?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Not his niece or cousin or anything?”

  Emma sighs. “Jeremiah, really. Must you always be tiresome?”

  But Jeremiah doesn’t look away from me, and there’s something foreboding in his eyes that prevents me from turning away either. I think back to that family dinner, and play Alana’s words through my mind. “She said daughter,” I confirm. “Why?”

  He takes in a breath, holds it a moment. “Because Irwin and Laura don’t have any children.”

  I stare at him, thoughts whipping through my brain too fast to grab a firm hold of any.

  He stares back.

  Emma’s laugh rings high. “You must be remembering wrong, Jeremiah.”

  “No, I’m quite certain.”

  “Maybe I misunderstood her.” My fingers draw my locket up the length of its chain. I can hear her words from dinner that evening as clear as if she just spoke them. When your father owns the paper, you have to learn it all, whether you’re a female or not.

  Why did she lie? Some kind of trick to win Nick’s affections? Did she think my brother would only notice her if she had a family of means and power?

  “Why would she have lied about that?” Emma’s question is breathy with disbelief, and it brings a smile to my face. Lydia would have reacted exactly the same.

  “I don’t know, but I can’t wait to find out.” I wink at Emma. “Perhaps dinner won’t be as dull as I had feared.”

  At home, I find Joyce forgot to lock the back door—so unlike her—and that Sidekick isn’t in his usual place on the towel we keep in the pantry.

  I groan. If he’s chewed up my shoes again . . . “Sidekick? Where are you, you troublemaker?”

  After a moment, I hear the distinct sound of Sidekick’s nails scraping along the hardwood as he races down the stairs, makes a sliding turn in the entry, and barrels into the kitchen.

  His front paws land square on my chest, and he gives a delighted yip.

  I scratch his ears before nudging his paws off me. “Easy, buddy. Madeleine Vionnet dresses don’t grow on trees, you know.”

  He dances a circle on the floor, his tail whipping back and forth.

  Accusing Alana of lying is too big an allegation to hang on Jeremiah being “quite sure” that Irwin Kirkwood has no daughter. I could call the newspaper and learn her real last name, and then, if there’s time, go to the library and see if I can get my hands on some archived issues. Seems like I should know everything I possibly can for when she inevitably denies the truth.

  I settle at Father’s desk and pull the telephone close to me. Sidekick lays his head on my lap and whimpers. “What’s going on with you?” I hook my finger in the dial and pull until my finger aligns with the appropriate number. “You’re acting very peculiar.”

  I rub by his ears while I wait. A woman comes on the line. “Long distance.”

  “Hi. I’d like to make a person-to-business call to The Kansas City Star in Kansas City, Missouri.”

  “Your name and number, please?”

  “Piper Sail. LIN-0421.”

  “Thank you. I’ll ring you back soon with your connection.”

  “Thank you.”

  My heart pitter-patters in my chest as I hang the earpiece back on the hook. Hopefully, Father makes enough long-distance telephone calls that the exorbitant expense won’t be shocking enough for him to investigate when the next bill comes.

  Sidekick presses his head deeper into my lap while we wait. I eye the ticking grandfather clock by the door. Supposing the call is quick, I might be able to make it to—

  The phone trills, ratcheting up my heart rate. I shake my head at myself—I’m such a ninny sometimes. “Hello?”

  “Your connection has been made.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Kansas City Star. How may I direct your call?” There’s a click as the long-distance operator leaves the line.

  “I’m calling for Alana Kirkwood.”

  Pause. “Did you say Irwin Kirkwood, miss?”

  “No, Alana Kirkwood. One of your reporters.”

  The second pause sends a satisfying thrill through me. “We don’t have any reporters by that name, miss.”

  I throw my stocking feet up on Father’s desk. Gotcha. “Oh, really? I was sure that was her name. What about one of your other female reporters? Are they available?”

  “We don’t employ any female reporters, miss.”

  I sit upright, and my feet fall to the floor with a thunk that makes Sidekick scurry away.

  “Miss?”

  “I’m here. I . . .” None? “You don’t employ any?”

  “No, miss. What is your call in regards to? I’ll connect you to the best party poss—”

  I let my finger fall heavy on the switch hook.

  No female reporters? Absolutely none? Does that mean—

  “So.” Alana smirks at me from the doorway, and a yelp escapes me. “You learned my little secret.”

  My heart thunders. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I know.”

  The simplicity of her words and the mystery of her smile makes my stomach fold in on itself. “Why’d you lie?”

  Alana saunters toward Father’s desk, the late-afternoon rays of sunlight shimmering in the beads of her fine dress. “Haven’t you ever lied to get what you want, Piper?”

  I fight away an eye roll. “Nick is no sap. Don’t you think he would’ve figured out that you’re a fake before you dragged him down the middle aisle?”

  Alana stands tall on the other side of Father’s desk, looking down at me with a patronizing smile. “You really think I’d go to all this trouble for Nick?”

  How dare she insult my brother. “If not for Nick—who, by the way, would be a catch for a girl like you—then why?”

  “I’m going to ask you a question, and if you’re smart, you’ll tell me the truth.” She rests her palms on Father’s desk and towers over me, the smile wiped from her face. “Where is your friend Matthew?”

  “Matthew?” The word emerges on a gusty exhale. “I’ve no idea.”

  Alana considers me. “I think you’re lying.”

  “Well, then, you’re going to be disappointed, because I’m not.”

  She straightens. “My patience has run out, Piper. And this time when I ask you, you’d better shoot straight.” She undoes the clasp of her clutch, and a small, silver pistol glints in the light as she levels it at me. “Or I’ll make sure I do.”

  The gun, which resides so comfortably in Alana’s grasp, sends my heart slamming against my rib cage. “I-I’m not lying.”

  The words flop out of my mouth and lie pointlessly between us. They’re no shield for me.

  “I saw the letter.” Impatience hardens her words. “He said he’d call. Now, where is he?”

  Sidekick wedges himself under my legs and trembles. Some sidekick. “He never called.”

  “Enough with the lies, Piper. Where is he?”

  “If I knew, I would tell you, but I don—”

  There’s a knock at the front door, which makes a startled scream stick in my throat. Sidekick barks, and scrambles out from under the desk to greet the visitor.

  Alana seems alarmed as well. She holds the gun at her side, and I steal the moment to look about Father’s desk. His banker’s lamp could be a decent weapon. Why can’t he keep a letter opener in plain sight?

  Alana aims the gun at me once more. “Who’s at the door, Piper?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’re going to ignore them. You so much as whimper the word help, and I will pull this trigger. That understood?”

  The look in her eyes—fury with a twinge of madness—is what sets my knees trembling.

  “Is that understood?”

  I nod.

  “Do you want to live, Piper?” Her voice is co
ld and quiet, yet it roars above Sidekick’s barking and scratching at the front door.

  “Yes, I do.” Please come in here. Whoever you are, please come in.

  “Then all you need to do is tell me where Matthew is. You tell me that, and this has a happy ending for all of us.”

  “What’s Matthew to you?”

  Alana opens her mouth, but instead, Emma Crane’s sweet voice fills the air. “Piper?” She’s in the entryway. “Hello?”

  My eyes slide closed as dread pierces my heart. Not Emma.

  “Anyone home?”

  I look to Alana, who presses her finger to her lips, the universal sign for shh.

  But Sidekick’s nails slide across the floor as he romps down the short hallway, toward the office.

  “Blasted dog,” Alana mutters. She tucks the gun behind her back. “Don’t get up. Don’t move. And get rid of her quick.” Her voice morphs to the airy, social one I’m accustomed to. “We’re down the hall, hon. In Mr. Sail’s office.”

  Nick’s words float through my ears—sometimes, it’s like she’s two different people—and a shiver courses through me.

  “Forgive me for barging in, but the door was unlocked.” Emma appears in the doorway, her dress sunshine yellow and her cheeks pink. Her smile falls when she looks at me. “Piper, what’s wrong?”

  I swallow. I don’t need to look at Alana to know she’s watching me with a warning gaze. I have to be calm. I have to lie.

  “Nothing.” My laugh trembles out of me. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Oh, good. You looked as though you’d received some sort of dreadful news!” She holds up my beaded handbag. “This is why I so rudely let myself in. I figured you’d need it for dinner tonight.”

  “Thank you.” My gaze wanders to the barrel of the gun behind Alana’s back, still pointed at me. “Why don’t you just put it right there? We need to be going soon.”

  “I’ve walked it this far. Surely I can walk it ten more feet to you.”

  As Emma draws closer to the desk, I bite my lower lip to keep from screaming, Run! Get out of here!

  Especially when Emma smiles at Alana and says a polite, “Hello.”

  I have to introduce them. It’ll seem odd if I don’t. “This is Alana Kirkwood, Nick’s girlfriend.” The words have a wobble to them that I can’t seem to erase from my voice. “And this is my good friend, Emma Crane.”

  Emma holds out her hand, every bit the well-bred society girl. “How do you do?”

  My stomach lurches as Alana shifts the gun to her left hand in order to shake Emma’s. “Very nice to meet you.”

  How good of a shot is she? It’s a single-action pistol. Does she carry extra bullets in her clutch as well? If I could somehow get to the gun and fire off a shot, I could do away with her advantage . . .

  But I can’t put Emma at risk. “Thanks for bringing my handbag, Emma, but we really need to be leaving for dinner.”

  “Of course. I hope you enjoy yourselves.” She smiles at Alana. “So nice to have met you.”

  Emma bends to scratch Sidekick’s chin, and in my peripheral vision, I see Alana shifting the gun back to her other hand. Her fingers seem to be tangled in the shift, and my gaze cuts to Father’s banker lamp. I could yank it from its cord and aim for her temple.

  I glance at Alana and find her piercing gaze on me, as if she read my mind.

  The breath whooshes from me as I see it happening—the gun slips from her hand.

  I reach across the desk and grasp the lamp base with both hands as Emma yelps, “A gun!”

  I stand and push Father’s chair back with one foot as I jerk at the lamp. “Run, Emma!”

  She screams and scrambles for the door.

  The lamp breaks free, and I stagger backward, right into Sidekick. He yips as I stumble over him, landing hard on my right hip behind Father’s desk.

  The crack of gunfire fills the room, cutting off Emma’s scream. Through Father’s desk, I see her crumple to the ground, her arms still stretching for the door. Crimson blooms on the back of her shoulder.

  “No.” I whisper the word. Or maybe I yell it. My ears ring from the explosion of the gun.

  Fingers grasp my arm and yank me along the carpet.

  “Get off me!” I claw at her hand. She used up her bullet—and her advantage.

  I try to stand, but pain screams in my right hip where it connected with the wood floor. I grab hold of Father’s desk, try to anchor myself there, and Alana grimaces as she tugs at me. “I don’t want to hurt you, Piper.”

  The gunshot still rings in my ear, and her words seem distant, as if my ears are filled with cotton. “You shot Emma!” The circle of red on her back grows ever bigger, and she’s eerily still against the wall. Is she alive? Please, God. “Emma!”

  A scream overcomes the room, only it isn’t me or Emma. It’s Alana. She releases me and swats at Sidekick, whose jaws are clamped around her ankle. She raises her pistol, and before I can stop it, she knocks the butt of the gun against his skull.

  He releases her with a yap and staggers away, handing me a window of opportunity.

  I throw my left leg across her and collapse all my weight onto her stomach. She groans as the air rushes out of her body. “What is wrong with you?” The girl yelling doesn’t sound like me. I hold down Alana’s arms and push her flat against the floor. “How could you shoot her? I told you, I don’t know anything!”

  “Don’t protect him, Piper,” she gasps out. “He killed Lydia.”

  He what?! My hands fall from her wrists. “That’s impossible. Matthew loved her.”

  Alana’s left hand snatches my collar, yanks me close. “And that’s what killed her.”

  In my peripheral, I catch the shadow of something in her right hand—the lamp? Then the nape of my neck erupts in pain, and the world is dark.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The world around me is shadowed. But at least I’m aware it exists. And that there are voices in it.

  “The answer is no, Maeve.” It’s a male voice, graveled with a hint of Irish burr. “We’re trying to run a business here.”

  Who is that? Where am I? Gray light filters through my eyelashes as I try to open them, and a blade of pain slices through my skull. I’m lying in something sticky. I raise my head, gritting my teeth against the searing pain, and force open my eyes.

  Blood. And from the burning of my cheek and forehead, I would guess it’s my own.

  My hands instinctively reach to grasp hold of my head, only they’re stuck behind my back. I tug, but they’re attached at the wrists. Rope? Did that blasted Alana tie me up?

  “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t an emergency.” Alana.

  “You seem to have a lot of emergencies. We helped you out last time because I owed my cousin a favor, even if he is an idiot. And I loved Alan. But we already have the cops breathing down our necks. Another dead society broad is the last thing we need.”

  Fear streaks up my spine. I blink as my vision starts to clear. A car. I’m in the back of a car. Grainy light filters through the window, but it’s too blinding to see any landmarks.

  Is Emma here too? Wherever “here” is?

  “Emma?” I try to call. But the sound never makes it past the rag shoved in my mouth.

  “She knows where Jacob is, I can feel it.” Alana’s voice is high and desperate. “We could finally get justice for what he did to Alan. To our family name.”

  “Maeve.” The name—Alana’s name?—is sharp on his tongue. “No.”

  “It’s Timothy Sail’s daughter. Her dad is the reason Colin rots in jail. I’m handing you your best chance for revenge, Uncle Pat.”

  Pat? As in Patrick Finnegan? Panic fills my veins, and I strain at the ropes binding my wrists and ankles. I have to get them loose. If I want to survive this, I have to break free. I have to be clearheaded and smart.

  But it feels as if my brain is wrapped in gauze, like I have to cut through layers upon layers to form a thought.
And I need coherent thoughts right now. I need them like never before.

  “I’m not your uncle. And even if I ignored that, the Cassanos would gun me down faster than you can say ‘Mariano’s girl.’”

  My vision starts to edge in black as fatigue saturates my body.

  No, not yet. I have to fight. I have to find some way to leave behind a clue for those who are looking for me. I force my brain to catalog every article of clothing I put on this morning. My feet are bare. I could try to tear my dress whenever Alana gets me out of the car, but that’s a gamble I don’t want to wait for. My knife is in my handbag, back in Father’s office.

  “But if you would just—”

  “Am I being unclear, Maeve?”

  My locket—has it survived so far?

  The silver oval winks in the waning sunlight, and the stab of pain that shoots through my head is worth it. If I can get it off, maybe I can drop it on the ground when the door is opened. I have to try and leave some kind of trail.

  “I just thought you’d care about your nephew, is all.” Alana’s voice has a childish, sulking quality to it.

  “You bring me the guy who killed Alan, I’ll slit his throat. But you keep bringing me society dames. I can’t work with that.”

  If I could just get my hands free, I could yank the necklace off. But wriggling my wrists only makes them burn. Is there anything that I could possibly hook the necklace around to pull it loose?

  “This discussion is over, Maeve. Move your car. We’ve got a big delivery shipping out just after sunset.”

  I’ll have to try and work the necklace off. I trap the locket beneath my collarbone and push against the far end of the car with my feet. A burning ache flames across my right cheek as the raw skin rubs against the sticky, bloody floor. I have to ignore it. The chain cuts into my neck but doesn’t give. I push harder. My muscles and face scream in protest.

  “When my father-in-law hears about how I’ve been treated—”

  “You tell Jimmy whatever you like about me. I don’t know how my cousin works things in Kansas City, but I’m guessing he doesn’t let little girls tell him what to do. And I don’t neither. Now clear out.”