“Look, I got it good here. If the museum goes under, so do I.”
“And there we have it.”
“It’s not just me, pal. You’ve got a square deal, too. How many jobs out there for fellas who read Nietzsche and catalog gris gris bags? We need a plan if we both want to stay employed. This Diviners exhibit is just the ticket. With the professor on the road, we’ve got two solid weeks to put this thing together without him interfering.”
“He won’t like it.”
“He won’t be around to stop it, and once we put the plan in motion, what’s he gonna do? Bold action, Jericho.”
Jericho leaned back in his chair, his eyes on Sam. “So what’s your brilliant plan to get Evie to host the party? She and Will haven’t spoken since she told all of New York that she’s a Diviner.”
“Oh, I’m sure I can persuade Evie,” Sam said, hooking his hands behind his head.
Jericho turned back to his book. “Yeah? Did you discuss that last night at the Grant?”
“You’re really put out about that, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t say that.” Jericho flipped the page. “So… how is she? Did she seem happy?”
Sam shrugged. “Sure. It was a party. You know how those things go. Or no, you don’t, do you?”
Jericho ignored Sam’s jibe. “Do you see each other often?”
Sam could tell Jericho the truth, that Evie had practically kicked him out of her party. But it was more fun to let the giant think otherwise. “Oh, gee. As a gentleman, I probably shouldn’t say more than that.”
“Fine. Don’t tell me.” Jericho glanced at the clock. “It’s almost time. Go open up.”
“Me? How come I gotta go? C’mon, Freddy. It’s cold out there. If I get sick, half the girls in New York will be crying their eyes out.”
“No doubt the other half will volunteer to dig your grave.”
“Aww, Freddy. That hurts my heart.”
“You don’t have a heart. It’s your turn. Go.”
“But—”
Without looking up, Jericho pointed to the door. “You are banished. I banish you.”
“Fine,” Sam grunted. “I’ll go hang out the ‘open’ shingle. Not that it matters.”
“Now who’s the nihilist?”
Jericho waited until Sam had gone. Then he slid the newspaper out from under his book and opened it to the article on Evie. Over the past few months, he’d sent her two letters and composed at least two dozen more that he hadn’t sent. The letters were all the same: Dear Evie, I hope you’re doing well. I really enjoyed your radio show. The Bennington isn’t quite as interesting since you left. But he was fairly certain she could read between the lines: Dear Evie, I miss you. Do you ever think of me?
Together, he and Evie had lived through their own small war of a night. No one else truly understood the pure evil they’d faced in that house with John Hobbes. A few days later, as the morning light crept over the city, he’d kissed her for the first time. How often he relived that moment—the taste of Evie’s mouth, the feel of her body against his, the comfort of her arms around his back. It had been the best few hours of his life. And then it was over. Evie had come to his room that night, and all he wanted was to kiss her again. I can’t, she’d said quietly as she pushed his hands away. It’s no good. It’s Mabel, you know. She adores you. And she’s my dearest friend in this world. I can’t, Jericho. I’m sorry. She’d left him sitting in his room in the dark. But she’d never left his thoughts.
Jericho tore Evie’s picture neatly from the paper and slipped it into his pocket even though he’d promised himself he’d stop doing that.
“What a chump,” he said—a phrase he’d gotten from Evie. Then he closed the book and set about his work in the empty museum.