Like last night, he was dressed in a white shirt and gray trousers with a pair of black suspenders that matched his shoes. He wasn’t wearing a coat or tie. Not yet, though it looked as though he was preparing to go out.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, looking at the tray, but he rushed to clear off a stack of folders from the desk so she could set it down. “I would have come up . . . but I slept a little later than I planned.”
“You look rested,” she said. Rested . . . yet still uncomfortable in her presence.
She wondered if he remembered everything. She thought he might. He’d looked at her with a good amount of trepidation at supper. She’d seen the look before. Many times. It was the look that said he found her peculiar.
She’d kept her stories to herself as much as possible when she’d moved to Cleveland. But eventually the truth leaked out. Vera had believed her first. Then Lenka. And finally Zuzana. It was a family trait, Lenka said. But Mr. Malone did not have their history to reassure him.
She wondered if she could call him Michael. She didn’t like calling him Mr. Malone. It put her back in the skin of her ten-year-old self, clutching the little rabbit, and looking up at him as he confirmed what she knew. They’re dead, aren’t they?
She cleared her throat and smoothed her skirt. “I have something that’s yours, Mr. Malone.” Better to get this out of the way. She reached into her pocket and pulled out his handkerchief and set it beside the breakfast tray. It was folded neatly, initials up, and he froze.
“I didn’t mean to take it,” she explained. “It was in my coat when I got off the train that day.”
For a moment he didn’t speak. He simply stared at the small white square, his hands in his pockets.
“You kept it all this time?” he asked, finally lifting his gaze to hers.
She shrugged. “I couldn’t very well throw it away. It was yours.”
“Huh.”
“I’m very sorry. You must have wanted it back.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I didn’t. It was an unhappy reminder.”
She didn’t know what to say. Should she take it back? The past was swirling around them. Questions and doubts. Disbelief and denial. She turned to go, unable to bear the awkward tension.
“When I called you Miss Flanagan last night, your aunt corrected me,” he said, delaying her exit. “So now I don’t know what to call you.”
“My aunts think my father was a no-good bum who murdered my mother. They won’t even say his name,” she explained softly.
“I thought maybe that was it. I guess you can’t blame them. They believe what they were told.”
“Yes. I suppose. I go by Kos because they asked me to when I came to live with them. And it made me feel like I belonged to them, which I needed. But it bothers me still. I think of myself as Dani Flanagan. That is who I am in here.” She patted her chest. “I tell myself it doesn’t matter. Daddy and Mother would understand. But sometimes it still feels like a betrayal.”
“What would you like me to call you?”
“You can call me Daniela . . . or Dani. I’d like to call you Michael . . . or at least Malone. It will feel less strange, I think.”
“I can’t imagine many things stranger than this,” he said. But his mouth had softened. “Have you been all right, Dani? I have worried about you. Wondered about you.”
“I’ve wondered about you as well. You believed me. I never forgot that.” She didn’t explain herself. She didn’t think she had to.
He was quiet for a moment, and she thought he might pretend not to understand. He didn’t.
“You were very convincing, kid. And you had no reason to lie.”
“No. None at all. I still don’t. At least, not with you.”
“Why? Why not with me?”
“Because you . . . already know.” She smiled, sheepish, but his hangdog expression didn’t change.
“For what it’s worth, Dani . . . I never thought your father killed your mother. I never believed it. I was just a beat cop. Young. Fairly new on the force. And I was told to shut my mouth. The case was closed, my captain said. But I knew. The whole damn precinct knew.”
She reached for the wall to brace herself. He was almost as odd as she, saying such things. They were strangers having an intensely intimate conversation. No small talk. No niceties. Just murder and conspiracy, right out of the gates. She felt almost dizzy and suspected it was relief. How good it felt to speak of it!
“My aunts said my father was a rumrunner,” she said. “Involved with the Irish gang. That’s what the authorities told them. I think that might have been true. It makes sense. He was gone a lot and didn’t work regular hours. Mother was nervous. That’s why they fought, I think. But he would not have killed my mother. Himself? Maybe. But never her. He would not have done that to her. And he would not have done that to me.”
He didn’t argue.
“I was a child. I didn’t know anything . . . except, they were crazy about each other. I saw that. I remember that. It comforts me now, thinking about how they were. Most people don’t get that in a lifetime. Many of us get love. But not like that.” She swallowed, trying to rein in her words. She sounded impassioned and . . . silly. But Malone nodded slowly.
“Mr. O’Brien said much the same thing when I went to get Charlie.”
“Mr. O’Brien did?” Dani whispered. Bless him for that. “The police told my aunts that my father pulled up to the house in a hurry. They said he walked inside—ran inside—shouting her name. Angry. A few minutes later, gunshots. Is any of that true?”
“I think someone was already in the house when your father got there. Your father was a rumrunner, and he stepped on some toes. Tried to sway suppliers and buyers to give him their business. Maybe he crossed some of the big guys, the gangsters. Or maybe he thought he could be in business on his own, and they didn’t like the competition. I don’t know, honestly. But that was a hit. It wasn’t even a very clean hit. But everyone fell into line. Neighbors. Cops. Newspapers. They told the story they were supposed to tell. And nobody else got hurt.”