CLARA
Clara wished she could’ve spent her Monday the exact same way she’d spent the past seven Mondays—sleeping off her hangover from the night before.
But thanks to Lorraine Dyer and her talent for ruining everything, Clara was sitting in a private investigator’s office, not hungover in the least, digging around in her briefcase for her rapidly expanding file on Anastasia Rijn. She found it and withdrew the engagement photograph clipped to the first page of her notes.
Clara reached across Solomon’s desk to hand him the photo. The desk was covered with teetering stacks of folders, old newspapers, and several open notebooks.
Solomon was as sloppy as his dim, cramped office. He was balding, and his black eyebrows were bushy enough to barely qualify as two separate entities. His checkered bow tie was coming loose, and mustard spots covered his collar and tweed jacket. If her colleagues at the Manhattanite hadn’t spent the morning telling her so, Clara never would’ve believed this pudgy mess of a man was the best in the business.
Solomon stared at the photo for only a few seconds before tapping his finger over Anastasia’s pretty face. “She’s cleaned up well,” he remarked. “What name is she going under these days?”
“Anastasia Rijn,” Clara said.
“How’d you find her?”
“She’s engaged to someone I know. A student who goes to school with Anastasia told me she thought there was something fishy about her. So I showed her picture to a few reporters at work, just to see if anyone had any dirt on her.”
“Makes sense,” Solomon replied. “Salacious scandals are the Manhattanite’s bread and butter.”
“My thinking exactly. Our features editor didn’t recognize her, but he gave me the number of his contact in the Barnard admissions office. I found out that Anastasia Rijn is a foreign transfer student at Barnard, speaks with a foreign accent. But she’s only taking a single class, and I wasn’t able to find anyone who knew about her background. She’s telling people she’s from France, and that she arrived in New York in the spring or early summer, but no one at Ellis Island was able to locate a record of her passage.”
Much as Clara hated to admit it, it seemed Lorraine had been right. There was definitely more to this girl than met the eye.
“You did all that today?” Solomon asked. Clara nodded. “That’s some fine detective work—better than what a lot of real cops were able to turn up on this particular dame.”
“Thank you. So you do recognize her?” She tugged nervously at the sailor collar of her blue-and-white plaid day dress.
Now that it appeared her sleuthing was going to dig up real answers, Clara almost didn’t want to hear them. As soon as she knew for sure that Anastasia was up to no good, she would have to do something about it. It was one thing to long for Marcus from afar—it would be quite another to actually see him face to face.
“Sure I recognize her.” Solomon lit his cigarette and took a drag, filling the tiny room with smoke. “She popped up in a couple of my cases, back when I was still working with the NYPD. This girl’s been into a little of everything—robbing banks, tax fraud, even assault and battery.”
Clara had trouble keeping her breathing even. She hadn’t thought the woman was a bona fide criminal.
“But she was never arrested?”
Solomon shook his head. “She’s a slippery one. She went under a different name every time. Deirdre Fitzsimons, Deirdre Dunwoody, Deirdre Jennings … Last time we were chasing her, we pinned down her real name as Deirdre Van Doren. But then she disappeared on us, like she always does. Looks like she wised up this time and used a totally fake name.”
“You’re sure that’s her?”
He gave the picture another glance. “I wouldn’t bet my life on it. But I’d bet … your life.”
Clara was taken aback. Then Solomon laughed. “That was a joke, sweetheart.”
“Oh, um … okay. Well, ha ha!”
Solomon took a sip of what appeared to be a cup of cold coffee. “This one started early. She’s about twenty-one, I’d say. She’s got a guy who does fake birth certificates and the whole shebang each time she decides to fleece somebody. Could I see that file of yours?” Clara wordlessly handed it over, and he shuffled through the pages. “Sheesh, I would’ve thought a writer would have better handwriting.”
Clara shrugged. “I failed my class in cursive, what can I say?”
Solomon snorted. “You’re feisty. I like that.” He stopped on one of the open pages. “So she’s in college. Must’ve thought she needed to step up her game to get herself hitched to someone who’s really loaded.” He put the file down on his desk. “It’s a little hard not to admire a dame like that, I’ve gotta say. Who’s the fool marrying her?”
“My old b—just, a, um … just a friend.”
Solomon frowned. “Well, if you want to be a real friend to him, you better tell him to run as fast as he can.”
Clara swallowed hard. Solomon was right. The problem was, while Marcus would call Clara a lot of things, a friend definitely wasn’t one of them.
Clara stormed into Hartley Hall looking purposeful.
A few boys in V-neck sweaters and knickers or checkered blazers and trousers sat in cushy chairs in the common area and played poker. Others gathered around a fellow telling an animated story at the bottom of the stairs.
Clara was going to have to send some kind of gift basket to Ricky in Features over at the Manhattanite. His Barnard admissions contact had put her in touch with a guy who worked in housing at Columbia. As soon as Clara had gotten hold of Marcus’s dorm and room number, she’d taken the train straight up to Morningside Heights. She needed to warn Marcus about Anastasia right away. Before he made a terrible mistake.
A thick-looking boy at the poker table gave Clara a quick glance before returning his eyes to the cards. “No girls in the dorm.”
One of the boys by the stairs—a particularly handsome fellow with brown hair and light gray eyes—approached Clara. “Don’t be such a flat tire, Aaron.” He gave Clara a dazzling smile. “I’m Thomas. Nice to meet you.”
“Clara.” She let her hand linger in his when he shook it.
“I’m afraid old Aaron’s right, though. You’ll get in huge trouble if someone catches you.”
“Oh no!” Clara said, raising her voice higher than usual and giving Thomas her best doe eyes. “I’m sorry—I go to school across the street, and I was so curious to see what a real Columbia dorm looked like.” Clara stepped closer to Thomas and touched his arm lightly. “Now I’ll have to leave without even getting to see a dorm room.”
Thomas’s eyes widened. He took her arm and led her a little away from the others. “Go around back to the second door on the left. From there you can take the back staircase and no one will see you.”
“But won’t the door be locked?”
“Naw, the lock on that door got busted a while ago. None of the RAs have reported it—they sneak girls in as often as we do.” He gave her a smug smile. “My room’s two twenty-five. I’ll see you there in about five minutes?”
Sometimes boys made things so easy. “I’ll see you there.”
Clara walked around the deep-red brick, ivory-trimmed dormitory and found the door. She grinned when the doorknob gave right under her hand. She walked into a deserted, concrete-walled stairwell. She took a deep breath, gripped the iron railing, and began to climb. Once she reached the second floor, she pushed the heavy stair door open and walked into the hall.
It was like stepping out of a dingy cornfield into The Secret Garden. Clara marveled that this was merely a college dormitory. The walls were wood-paneled and masculine. Her heels sank into the plush rug and sconces hung between each of the doors. There were even elegant wooden benches against the walls, in case Columbia’s men decided they couldn’t make it the last five steps to their rooms before they needed to sit down. She knocked hard on 237 when she reached it.
And there he was.
For a split second, Marcus looked the way Clara always remembered him. He wore the half smirk of a man who knew that no matter what he said, it would always be charming and clever. He was dressed casually in a blue silk button-down with rolled-up sleeves and tan trousers. His blond hair was still a little damp from the shower, and Clara could smell his spicy aftershave. His blue eyes were bright and engaging, his lips were full and kissable, and he had those long black lashes any girl would kill for.
Marcus was the kind of handsome that always took Clara’s breath away—not a handy thing when her nervousness was making it hard enough to breathe as it was.
But when Marcus recognized that it was Clara standing outside his room, his eyes hardened. Clara noticed his hands shaking a little, and he reddened when he noticed her noticing. He shoved his hands in his pockets and his lip curled. “You’re not allowed to be here.”
His words cut her like ice. He clearly did not want to see her.
And yet she pushed her way inside.
“Hey! What are you doing!” Marcus followed, rushing ahead and then turning on his heels to stop her—but they were already in the middle of the room.
It was huge, which made sense, considering Marcus’s parents had built nearly half the school. The far wall had two expansive windows with checkered curtains. The room was surprisingly bare of personal touches, though there was a framed photo of “Anastasia” on Marcus’s desk.
Clara’s breath caught in her throat when she saw the movie poster hanging on Marcus’s wall. Buster Keaton stood in a straw boater and a long coat, his wide-eyed face as stoic and deadpan as ever. It was a poster for Our Hospitality: the movie he’d taken Clara to see on their first date in Chicago. Marcus was a Buster Keaton fan, sure, but why did he choose a poster for that particular film?
Marcus took a few deep breaths, attempting to cool down. “You have to leave, Clara. I’m not kidding. Girls aren’t allowed in the dorms, particularly not drunk ones.”
“I’m not drunk!”
He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist. “No? Well, it’s almost six o’clock. You’d better get a move on if you want to be half as zozzled as the other flappers at whatever speakeasy or party you’re going to later.”
“Look, I know I’m the last person you want to see right now. And I’ll go. But first there’s something I need to tell you.” Clara crossed to Marcus’s desk and picked up the picture of his fiancée. “Marcus, this woman is not who she says she is.”
Marcus laughed incredulously. “That’s it? That’s what you’re here to say? No ‘Hi, Marcus, I haven’t seen you in a month and a half. How’s life been treating you?’ No ‘You’ve started college since the last time I saw you. What’s that like?’ You skip right over all that and start taking shots at my fiancée?”
His hands started shaking again. “Back in Chicago I liked you because you were different. You were smart, and funny, and you never felt the need to stoop to the level of the Lorraine Dyers of the world. But now you seem just like her.”
Clara focused all her energy on not allowing tears to spring to her eyes. “No, Marcus, if you’d just listen—”
“Is this what you’ve stooped to now?” Marcus grabbed the photo from Clara and returned it to his desk. “It wasn’t enough for you to lie to me and break my heart, but you’re now going to try and ruin the rest of my life?”
Clara could hear the anger giving way to hurt in his voice. She wanted nothing more than to admit how wrong she’d been to lie to him, to let him go so easily. She wanted to close the gap between them and feel his arms around her again.
Clara took a few steps forward. In response, Marcus’s sky-blue eyes widened—was it from fear of her getting too close, or maybe in anticipation? Clara blinked. It was definitely fear. Her being here was making Marcus incredibly upset.
She stopped walking when she was close enough to brush Marcus’s hair out of his eyes. His hair always dried messy and unruly before he had the chance to tame it with pomade—another thing Clara had always loved about him.
“Marcus, I—” Clara began, ready to confess how much she missed him and how she’d do anything to have him back in her life.
She’d never given Marcus enough credit when it came to understanding all she’d been through in her old New York life, how hard it had been for her to pretend that the glitter and revelry of the flapper world didn’t still call to her. Instead, she told lie after lie, then got angry at Marcus for being less than understanding about her new career as a journalist.
Marcus hadn’t even told her to stop writing—he’d just encouraged her to go to school and take her writing more seriously. But Clara had decided that Marcus didn’t support her career. If she tried to focus on Marcus’s shortcomings, she could ignore how selfish she’d truly been at the end of their relationship.
But he’d been right. Parker and the Manhattanite team didn’t take her seriously. Maybe if she apologized, really apologized …
The words were right there on the tip of Clara’s tongue. But if she said any of them, how would he ever believe her about this Deirdre woman? He’d think she was only spinning lies in order to win him back. Marcus would probably go running back to his Anastasia as fast as his legs could carry him.
And protecting him from making the mistake of a lifetime was more important than confessing her feelings.
So Clara moved away from him, sank into the wooden chair in front of his desk, and avoided his gaze. “Marcus, I’m not trying to ruin your life—this has nothing to do with you and me. I mean, there isn’t even a ‘you and me’ anymore. That’s over and we’re both over it, right? I’m here out of friendship. I just don’t like to see a friend get fleeced.”
It pained her to say the words, because they weren’t true. She wasn’t over it. But if this was the only way to protect Marcus, then she’d have to bite the bullet.
Marcus was silent. He stood still, one hand resting on the black telephone on his night table. Had he called someone while her back was turned? Clara hadn’t heard him say anything. His eyes narrowed, and Clara could tell right away that she’d said precisely the wrong thing.
“Friendship?” He scoffed. “You and I were never friends, Clara, and we sure as hell aren’t now. I loved you,” he said in a quieter voice. “I wanted to be with you, and all you wanted to do was party and lie to me.”
Clara swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to, it was for a job.”
“A job you never told me about! For no good reason! Unless you didn’t want me to know about the job because you didn’t want me to know about your editor.”
“Nothing was going on between me and Parker then, and nothing is going on now.” At least she could say that honestly. Semihonestly, anyway.
“I don’t believe anything you say anymore. You lied to me at first, back in Chicago, but I understood that. You were ashamed of your past. When we got here, though, I realized that wasn’t it—it was just you. You got so caught up in manipulation and double talk as a flapper that now you don’t know how to be honest with anyone.”
It was what Clara had always feared most. She’d watched enough girls lie their way into speakeasies, into relationships, into money, until they lied even when they didn’t need to. And now here was Marcus, the boy who’d convinced her she was different from all those girls, telling her she was just like them.
“How was I supposed to keep loving you if I couldn’t believe a word out of your mouth? Only a complete idiot would,” he said grimly. “Do you really not understand what you did wrong?”
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, Clara said to herself over and over. It had kind of become a personal mantra these past few weeks.
Marcus held her eyes for a few moments, waiting for the apology Clara couldn’t give him. If she told him how sorry she was, it would tumble into a confession of love that she wouldn’t be able to take back.
Eventually Marcus exhaled heavily and looked away. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. I’ve found someone who wants to be with me, and I’m not going to let you screw it up. Do yourself a favor and leave. Now.”
“But I—” Clara began, when a sharp knock on the door interrupted her.
“Oh, too late,” Marcus said. He flung open the door to reveal two men in black uniforms with silver badges pinned to their chests.
Clara turned to glare at Marcus. He’d called security on her? Really?
“This drunk woman burst into my room. I’ve never seen her before in my life.” He looked at Clara with a hint of a smile. It was both sad and cruel at the same time. “Please take her away.”
LORRAINE
And Becky had said Lorraine’s opera glasses would never come in handy.
It was early evening and the streetlamps that dotted Columbia’s campus had just flickered on. The campus was fairly deserted this time of day—just a few students strolled down the cobbled path to the domed library on Lorraine’s left. Wind brushed through the trees and made Lorraine wish she’d brought a sweater or jacket. Why couldn’t summer do everyone a favor and last all year long?
From her bench on the lawn, Lorraine could nearly see through Marcus’s window into his dorm room. She couldn’t make out who Marcus was talking to, only that it was a girl who was not his fiancée. Lorraine pressed the glasses closer to her face and leaned forward. “What are you up to, Marcus?” she whispered.
Lorraine had been following Marcus since she’d returned from Long Island two days earlier. Before, she’d only hung around outside Marcus’s classes when she had a spare moment—but now tailing him had become her full-time job.
She’d been studying how much time Marcus spent with Anastasia/Deirdre, and what times of day she’d be most likely to catch the lying harlot alone. Soon Lorraine would tell Anastasia that she knew about her dirty past and that she’d better come clean to Marcus. Or else Lorraine would … do something. She hadn’t really worked that part out yet.
Melvin had pointed out that Lorraine’s “research” was remarkably similar to what she had been doing before she’d even known Marcus was engaged. But while that might have seemed to be the case to an oil can like Melvin, her motivations had changed. Lorraine wasn’t just a girl with a crush now: She was a woman on a rescue mission.
She shivered and set her glasses on the bench so she could rub her hands over her goose-pimpled arms. A sleeveless dress, while fashionable, was not the best attire for spying. Lorraine raised the opera glasses back up to her eyes and saw two security guards in black uniforms in Marcus’s doorway. Where had they come from?
The guards left nearly as soon as they’d arrived, the woman Marcus had been talking to with them. Seriously, what was going on up there? Lorraine slipped her opera glasses into her purse, rose from the bench, and took a few hesitant steps across the lawn toward Hartley Hall.
As her heels crunched over the fallen leaves, Lorraine speculated as to who the woman might be. Was Marcus having some kind of affair with a lady criminal?
When Lorraine was halfway across the lawn, the security guards emerged from the dorm with the woman between them. Lorraine stepped closer, squinted, and gasped.
Clara Knowles? What had she been doing in Marcus’s room?
Back at Forrest Hamilton’s party, Clara hadn’t wanted anything to do with Marcus. But clearly something had changed.
And now Clara was in trouble.
The security guards began to lead her across the South Lawn, and without another thought, Lorraine raced toward them. Ugh, her brocade T-strap heels were gorgeous, but they were horrid for running. She felt tempted to chuck them off—this damp grass had probably already ruined them anyway.
She nearly ran into a fellow lugging a huge stack of textbooks when she stopped short near Clara and the security guards. “W-watch where you’re going, y-y-you lousy dew-dropper!” Lorraine yelled at the boy, out of breath. She needed to stop skipping her physical education class so often, even if it was at eight in the morning.
The boy caught his teetering books before any fell, scowled at her, and stalked off. How rude!
“Not another one,” the overweight, middle-aged security guard complained. “What are you doing wandering around the campus after dark?” He, the other guard, and Clara all stared at her.
Lorraine froze. “I … Opera!” She fumbled around in her purse and withdrew her glasses. They’d been so useful this evening! “I’m coming from the opera, see?”
The guard frowned at Lorraine. “Fine. Now, girlie, get back to your own campus and out of our way.”
“Do you want me to walk her back?” the other guard asked with a hopeful glint in his muddy-brown eyes. He had floppy brown hair and was barely older than Lorraine and Clara.
“No, let’s just keep moving,” the first one replied.
The two men started to walk around Lorraine, but she caught the younger one’s shoulder. “No, wait, she’s my friend!” She rushed forward so she was standing in front of Clara and smiled wide at her. “Where did you get off to, Clarabelle?” She flung her arms around Clara without waiting for an answer. It was a pretty awkward embrace since the guards were still holding both of Clara’s arms. Not that Clara would’ve hugged her back anyway. “I was so worried!”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Clara asked through gritted teeth.
“Rescuing you,” Lorraine whispered back. “Just shut your trap!”
“Step aside, ma’am,” the older security guard ordered, and continued walking.
Lorraine fell into step beside the younger guard, which caused the older one to harrumph and go faster. Lorraine practically ran to keep up with them, and the younger guard smiled at her.
“What’s your problem with Clara? We’re dear friends. I can vouch for her completely. I go to school at Barnard, that college just across the street—”
“We’re well acquainted with Barnard, thanks,” the young guy said. His name tag said Robert while the middle-aged guy’s said Walter. “But one of our students said this girl was making a scene in his dormitory. He also seemed to think she’d been drinking. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”
They pushed past Lorraine. “Wait!” she said, urging her legs to keep moving. She approached them on the other side this time and tried to grab Walter’s arm.
“Hands off, girlie!” He shook her off as they stepped from the lawn to a paved walkway, and Lorraine almost fell. The two men and Clara walked quickly to a redbrick building and climbed the stairs to its entrance.
“But you don’t understand!” Lorraine said, stumbling up the stairs behind them. “My Clara? Drinking? I’ve never heard of something so ridiculous. Why, I’ve never seen Clara drink anything, ever. Not even a glass of water—”
“Lorraine, you’re not helping,” Clara said.
Robert and Walter led Clara into the building, which, judging by the men lounging in the common area and wall of mailboxes in the lobby, was also a dormitory. A few handsome boys in blazers rose from their armchairs to stare at Clara and Lorraine.
Lorraine followed the guards and Clara through a door to the left of the entrance and down the stairs to the basement. Walter scowled at Lorraine over his shoulder on the stairs. “You’re still here? Turn around, and don’t stop until you’re back on your own campus!”
Lorraine ignored him, and he couldn’t do much about it, since that would’ve meant letting go of Clara. The security guards led them into a cramped, messy room. A few security guards as young as Robert were sitting at mismatched desks, reading textbooks and sipping steaming mugs of coffee. A half-full box of doughnuts and a stack of plates sat on an empty table with wooden chairs around it. Another positively ancient guard dozed on a couch against the wall.
“What is this place?” Lorraine asked Robert.
“Security headquarters,” he explained. “And we’ve got a holding cell in the back for the real troublemakers. That’s where your friend is going.”
“You’re putting me where?” Clara exclaimed.
“All right, I’ve got to take over the shift at Hamilton,” Walter said, ignoring Clara and checking his watch. He gave Lorraine one last glare before turning to Robert. “You think you can handle this, Bobby?”
The younger man nodded, his shaggy hair flying as if he were a wet dog shaking himself dry. Bobby reminded Lorraine a lot of a Labrador, actually, with his big, eager-to-please brown eyes. Thank God he was the one sticking around. Lorraine would have Clara out of here in no time.
“Keeping booze and girls out of our dormitories is something we take very seriously here at Columbia,” Walter said to Clara. “If you’re going to get drunk, do it at your own school and let them deal with it.”
“For the last time, I’m not drunk! And I don’t even go to Barnard!” Clara called, clenching her fists in frustration. But Walter was already steering his chubby form back up the stairs.
“Just come with me,” Bobby said.
He walked down a narrow hallway that branched off the office area, then took out a key ring to unlock the last door on the right. When he did, Lorraine could see over his shoulder that it was a supply closet of sorts. Cups of pencils and pens sat next to stacks of notebooks and folders on wide metal shelves. A few wooden chairs sat in the center of the tiny room and there was a coffeepot and mugs on a small table by the door.
Bobby ushered Clara inside. “So like I said before, I’m going to have to ask you to cool your heels in our little holding cell here—just until you’re sober enough to head home. There’s coffee in there—that’ll probably help.”
“I’ve said about twelve times that I’m not drunk,” Clara complained. “Do you want me to walk in a straight line? Recite the Pledge of Allegiance?”
Bobby loosened the collar of his uniform. “Sorry, but orders are orders. It’s not like I even think drinking is such a big deal. Just last week my buddies and I went to this place called the Big Top—”
“Oh, fine!” Clara said. “It’s like talking to a damn wall.” She looked at Lorraine. “Good job rescuing me.” Then she slammed the door to the supply closet shut behind her.
Bobby looked at Lorraine. “You really need to leave now,” he said. “Walter could get you in real trouble if you’re still here when he gets back. I’ll walk you out.”
Lorraine let out a heavy sigh and walked with Bobby back down the hallway. She needed to come up with a plan to free Clara, and fast. She’d prove that she could do something nice for someone else—whether that someone wanted her to or not.
Lorraine stopped at the end of the hallway.
“Why did you stop?” Bobby asked, halting as well. “Is something wrong?”
Lorraine sidled up close to him, nearly pinning him against the yellow wall. She put her gloved hand on his arm and gave Bobby her best sexy sheba stare. “I’m just dying to see the inside of a real jail cell, Officer!”
The security guard’s face flushed and he blinked his big eyes a few times. “I just do this to help pay my tuition. And it’s not a real jail cell. We’re in the basement of a dormitory.”
“I don’t believe you!” she exclaimed. “Of course it’s a cell. You just said so yourself!”
“We call it that. It’s really just a door that locks. You shouldn’t worry about your friend—she’ll be fine.”
“Doors don’t lock! Not where I grew up!” Lorraine blurted out desperately. She looked between him and the door to the supply closet in mock wonder.
“Really? Where did you grow up?”
Lorraine thought for a moment. “Amish country!” She could hear what sounded suspiciously like muffled laughter coming through the door.
Bobby eyed Lorraine’s pleated navy-blue wool crepe Patou day dress. It barely reached her knees. “Dressed like that?”
Lorraine had really picked the wrong outfit today, hadn’t she? He would never believe her now. Unless … “I’m trying to blend in. I’m on my rumspringa!” Lorraine looked down in concern. “Isn’t this what sinners in New York wear?”
Bobby laughed. “You might’ve gone too far in the sinner direction.”
Lorraine gave him a coy smile and ran her fingertip down his skinny chest. “Well, that does seem to be how, um, non-Amish girls get the attention of handsome boys like yourself. Now show me this ‘locking door’ of which you speak.”
Bobby, still blushing and a little dazed, walked back to Clara’s “cell.” He unlocked the door and opened it. “See?”
“So,” Lorraine said, “if I go in here and you close the door, I’m locked in?” He nodded. She walked through the doorway. Clara rose from her wooden chair with a hiked eyebrow. Lorraine ignored her and looked back at Bobby. “Show me.”
Bobby closed the door on them and Lorraine tried to turn the doorknob a few times. Then she walked over to Clara’s chair with a smug grin. “You can thank me later,” she whispered.
Clara stared at her. “Lorraine, what exactly are you—”
“The mouse is going to be your cue to run,” Lorraine whispered.
“What?” Clara asked.
“Try opening the door again,” Bobby called from outside.
Lorraine jiggled the knob and the door opened. She stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips. “How do I know you weren’t just holding the knob, using your muscles so that it won’t turn?”
“Because it’s a lock,” Bobby replied, somewhere between amusement and exasperation.
She crossed her arms. “Back on the farm in Amish country, people used to tell tales about things like locks all the time. Like how buildings here in the city have these floating boxes that people ride in instead of climbing stairs! Can you imagine?”
“I should probably get back to work—”
“See, I knew you were lying! Locking doors, what a silly idea.”
Bobby sighed and walked past her into the supply closet. “Okay, this time I’ll let you close the door on me.” He took his key ring out of his pocket and handed a large silver key to Lorraine. “But then you go home, all right? And maybe, well—my shift ends at nine … if you wanted to—”
Lorraine took the keys from him, then pointed at the corner in mock horror. “A mouse!” she exclaimed. Before Bobby had a chance to look, Lorraine grabbed Clara’s wrist and pulled her through the doorway.
She shut the door, locked it, and pocketed the key.
“Hey, you weren’t supposed to bring your friend out with you!” Bobby called through the door. “And I don’t see any mouse! ”
The girls ran into the hallway. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you did that!” Clara’s voice was high with fear, anger, or admiration. Admiration, Lorraine decided.
“I know! What a rush!”
“What do we do now?” Clara whispered with wide blue eyes.
Ha! Clara Knowles was asking her what to do. Competency proven!
“Raine?”
“Run,” Lorraine said. “There’s a church nearby, Saint John the Divine. The guards would never chase us in there. It would be blasphemy or something.”
Clara looked doubtful but nodded.
“I don’t see any mouse,” Bobby called out. “And anyway, I was right about the lock. See? I can’t get out.”
“Are you sure?” Lorraine asked.
The doorknob jiggled. “Yeah, you’ve got the key, remember?”
“You’re right, I do!” Lorraine called with a laugh. “Bye!”
Lorraine gripped Clara’s wrist and pulled her down the hall, away from Bobby and his poor, dumb Labrador eyes.
They ran past the security guards in the office, up the stairs, and straight out the door. They raced across campus, constantly looking behind them. A group of well-dressed Barnard girls and Columbia boys walked toward them—they were probably actually coming from the opera. The two girls veered out of the way onto the grass.
Finally they made it through Columbia’s black gate and onto Amsterdam Avenue. They both laughed, relieved. “We made it!” Clara said.
Lorraine looked back to the brick dorm they’d just left and saw two security guards running out the entrance. “Not quite,” she said, pointing.
She grabbed Clara’s hand and they ran straight down the sidewalk. A hulking Rolls-Royce honked loudly at them as they dashed across the street toward an enormous, beautiful Gothic stone church that looked like it had been yanked straight out of a piazza in Italy. The sight of its intricately carved archways, numerous columns, and rooftop spires against the night sky would’ve been gorgeous if Lorraine had had the time to appreciate it. The two girls rushed up the stone stairs and through the heavy bronze doors into the church.
Clara looked over her shoulder when the doors shut behind them. “Do you think we lost them?”
“Definitely. They hadn’t even left campus by the time we got here.”
Clara smoothed her hair under her headband as they walked down the center aisle. Lorraine found this surprisingly endearing. She’d never felt anything special when she walked into a church. To her, churches were just big, old buildings where people tended to get very angry when she pulled out a flask in a pew.
But the quiet wonder of this building did demand respect, no matter what religion a person subscribed to. They passed through the aisle under high, domed ceilings. Creamy white columns stood near the altar. The enormous stained-glass windows added splashes of warmth and vibrancy to the cathedral’s otherwise somber atmosphere. An older woman dressed in black sat with a candle in her hands while a group of tourists marveled at the architecture in excited silence.
Clara and Lorraine slipped into one of the long wooden pews and sat down. “It’s not like an hour in the supply closet would’ve killed me.”
Lorraine shrugged. “If I hadn’t told you all that about Marcus, you never would’ve sneaked into his dorm.”
Clara met Lorraine’s eyes. “Amish, Raine, really?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“It did. Thanks, I guess.” Clara sank further into her seat. “I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously when you tried to tell me about Marcus’s fiancée. You were right. Her real name is Deirdre Van Doren and she’s got some kind of record.”
“Like a criminal one? Then let’s call the police, let them deal with her.”
“Shhh!” a frizzy-haired tourist hissed, glaring at them. Jeez, Lorraine thought, just because she had horrible hair didn’t mean she had to take it out on everyone else.
Clara leaned forward and whispered, “No, I talked to an ex-cop who’d worked some of her cases in the past. He said he thinks Anastasia is Deirdre, but he can’t provide anything that would hold up in court.” Clara fiddled with her aquamarine ring. “So I’m going to have to make sure Marcus doesn’t marry her myself. Even if he doesn’t want to be with me, he deserves someone better than her.”
Lorraine studied formerly Country Clara and felt her stomach twist up. She’d known Clara wasn’t really over Marcus—how could she be? It was Marcus Eastman. Marcus Eastman, the guy Lorraine had been in love with for the better part of her adolescence. As much as she wanted to save Marcus from ruin, part of her still wanted to be the girl he turned to once he was free of his duplicitous bride-to-be.
But the truth was like a fresh cup of coffee—it woke you up. Marcus would never want her. He was still in love with Clara. He never would’ve called security if he didn’t harbor feelings for the girl. Being that angry took a lot of energy—energy Marcus wouldn’t waste on someone who didn’t matter a hell of a lot to him.
Lorraine stared at the high ceilings and felt a chill of piercing but revelatory silence. She could focus on the way Clara had put her down, how Marcus refused to notice her, how Gloria had abandoned her when she’d needed her most.
Or she could get over it and try to take the high road for once.
“I’ll help you do the right thing, Clara. By doing the wrong thing. I’m an expert at that. We’ll confront this quiff and chase her out of town!”
Clara nodded. “And if she doesn’t agree to leave, I’ll publish an exposé on her. I managed to dig up a lot of dirt on her today. Maybe not enough to get her arrested, but it would definitely make Marcus’s parents think twice about letting him go through with the wedding.” She paused. “Provided Parker lets me do that. He might want me to focus on parties and gossip—it’s what sells.”
“Whether Parker gives you permission or not, that shouldn’t stop you from threatening Deirdre that you’ll expose her.”
They both heard a man clear his throat and whipped around in their seats toward the aisle. A gray-haired man in a white priest’s robe stood next to them with his arms crossed. “I must ask you to keep your voices down. This is a place of worship.”
“Hey, it’s not your church,” Lorraine snapped. Couldn’t he see that they were in the middle of an important conversation?
Clara popped out of her seat and grabbed Lorraine’s arm. “We’re very sorry. We’ll finish our conversation somewhere else.” She paused. “This church is really beautiful.”
The priest patted Clara’s shoulder. “You’ll have to come back sometime, really take everything in. And be a bit quieter about it, if you don’t mind.”
Lorraine stared at Clara’s sheepish, genuine smile. She had thought that everything about Clara’s country bumpkin act had been exactly that—an act. But she was beginning to see that at least some part of it had been the real girl peeking out.
Which made Lorraine appreciate Clara even more. She wasn’t just the kind of girl who looked good in a designer gown. Clara could also appreciate the quiet brilliance of a nearly empty church on an early Monday evening.
“Yeah, I guess this place isn’t so bad,” Lorraine commented as they left. “Though I think they’d really benefit if they put in a bar in the back. Think how many seats they’d fill if you could get a martini with your prayer!”