“Why are you doing this now?”
“I only have the three days, and I’ve no idea where he’ll go first when he gets out, or if the person who broke into our house will have told him that the boys left town. There are a lot of contingencies.”
Sherlock crossed his arms. “Why are you sending me away for that? I could be helpful.”
I wanted to explain that he couldn’t be involved in what I was about to do. That I needed him unstained and unbroken. I needed to know that he would still be Sherlock Holmes four days from now. But he’d never leave if I did that. Because he was still Sherlock Holmes, and I had a puzzle to solve. So, instead, I rested a hand on the doorjamb.
“I need you to go.”
“I won’t.”
I didn’t entertain his petulance with a response. I just stood at the door and watched him until his anger returned.
“Why? Why! WHY!”
“Because I don’t trust you!” I shouted back. “I don’t trust you to help me. How could I?”
The subtle shift in him from righteous anger to guilt—would anyone have been able to see that but me? “It won’t be like last time. I’ll—”
“Because even if by some miracle you don’t betray me outright, you’ll get in my way, and then I’ll have to cut you down to get to him. And don’t think I won’t.”
His expression was ice then. I’d seen it before; I’d caused it before. He was in pain again, and I’d done that. Did it matter why?
“So now I need you to leave.”
Lock took three steps toward me, the glass crunching with his every footfall, but he didn’t look at me, only out at the street. “I’ll go get my bag.”
“I won’t open the door for you. And I’ll call one of Alice’s men if you try to sleep on my stoop.”
He took another step so that we stood side by side, our shoulders almost touching, he looking out and I looking at him. I clenched my hand into a fist at my side to keep from reaching for him.
“Then I’ll come back,” he said. “I’ll always come back.”
I couldn’t show him the pain I felt at hearing my own broken promise tossed in my face. I remained perfectly still, feeling the sharper edges of my pain lance through me until I was gutted. Without looking, Lock reached out a hand to surround my fist—my one tell of the turmoil inside. Of course he’d seen it. He was Sherlock Holmes.
He pressed his thumb into my clenched fingers to relax them away from my palm. He traced his thumb across the indents my fingernails had made and down along my fingers. And then, slowly, he released my hand entirely, and I had to press it up against my leg to keep from grasping at the air where his hand had just been. I couldn’t look at him anymore, but I held him in my periphery.
“You’ll . . . ,” he started, but his voice broke, and he cleared his throat before speaking again. “You’ll lock the door behind me?”
I nodded.
He mirrored the gesture. He cleared his throat again, and this time his voice was soft. “I’m going to call you at intervals throughout the night. If you don’t pick up within two rings, I’ll be back here. And I will break down the door if you don’t let me in.”
I should’ve protested, but I didn’t trust my voice. I nodded instead, justifying myself with the thought that I didn’t have to speak to him, just answer the phone and then end the call.
I thought he might linger there in my doorway. ?And maybe I would have broken down if he had, begged him back inside to stay with me. But he immediately stepped out onto our stoop and made his way down the stairs. I watched him until he crossed the street, and then I closed the door.
Which is when I found the picture.
At my eye level, on the back of the door, there was an old, stained picture of a young boy, no more than Seanie’s age, wearing a white shirt with red sleeves and black shorts. Someone had affixed it to the door using one of the small carving knives from the kitchen. I knew the boy’s face. I’d seen it before. Somewhere.
I studied the image then closed my eyes in an attempt to capture the memory. I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen him on the street. It was more like I’d seen that photo before. I let my mind follow memories of family photo albums, pictures hanging on walls, television shows, and then finally newspapers. And because there was some law that what a person needed to find would inevitably be in the last place they searched for it, the thought of newspapers finally brought the memory back to me.
The scrapbook in the attic. The picture stabbed to my door was even the same picture of the boy, only the red sleeves were hidden in the black and white of newsprint. I closed my eyes trying to picture the article or the words of the headline for about thirty seconds before I realized I didn’t need to. The scrapbook had the article, which meant I probably even had a name.
“In the attic,” I whispered.
And then I heard two crunching steps behind me.
Chapter 27