Joyce watches him go with a fond expression. “He cares about you so much.”
“Right now, he does, anyway. And I’ll take it.” I lift my spoon. “Chicken and noodles. I’m spoiled.”
“I thought you could use some of your mother’s cooking.” Joyce pulls over a footstool and draws the box of clean bandages onto her lap.
“Oh, Joyce, not now. You just gave me food, for heaven’s sake.”
“It’s either now or right after Walter gets home, my dear.”
I lay back with a gusty sigh.
My face and shoulders are battered from some quality time with the asphalt in our back alley, which must have happened when Alana dragged me to her car. Apparently, the doctor spent a decent amount of time digging grit and pebbles out of my cheek. Praise God that I was unconscious for that. The first time Joyce changed my bandages, she cried.
But today, her eyes are dry, happy even, as she peels off the tape and gauze. “And your father has done everything short of crawling out of his own skin to get back here. He couldn’t be more proud of how you handled yourself, I’m sure. Your mama would be proud too.”
I can’t help snorting, which is quickly followed by a wince at the spark of pain in my ribs. “Oh, sure. I’m what every mother would want for a daughter. I can’t sew, I’m not dainty, I’m loud, I—”
“You”—Joyce clasps my chin in her doughy hand—“are exactly who you’re supposed to be, and that’s why we love you. Your mama wouldn’t have wanted you to be one of those prissy ladies, anyway. She wasn’t one herself.”
“She wasn’t? She spent so much energy trying to get me to sit up straight and not run everywhere.”
“She was a lady, mind you.” Joyce smooths the edges of the bandage. “But your father speaks of a woman who laughed loud and lived life. Just like you, Piper.” She snaps shut the bandage box and returns it under the end table. “I’ll let you enjoy your lunch now.”
I’m halfway done with my lunch, my mind floating listlessly from topic to topic, when the shrill ring of the telephone breaks into my thoughts. I reach behind me for the candlestick phone and pull it onto my lap. “Sail residence.”
“Is Miss Sail available?”
The male voice makes my heart stammer. Matthew. “This is Piper.”
“Do you recognize the voice of an old friend?”
“I do.”
“I hoped so. I’m at a phone booth and don’t have much money, but I had to call. I just saw an old issue of the Daily Chicagoan. It was like a nightmare come to life, seeing Maeve’s picture with yours.”
I run my thumb up the length of my repaired necklace. “It was a nightmare living it.”
“If I’d seen Maeve any earlier, I would’ve left town.” Matthew’s words are laced with despair. “You have to believe me.”
“You would have given your life for Lydia,” I say in a quiet voice. “At least you’ve been cleared of murdering her. Did you see that in the paper too?”
“Only in a few of them,” he says darkly.
All the papers had gone crazy over the detail that Robbie Thomas, of the famed Finnegan raid, had previously been involved in a raid in Kansas City, the one that had left Maeve Burk’s husband dead and sent her packing for Chicago with her false name and thirst for revenge. A few of the papers were still calling for Matthew to be found, saying he and Maeve must have been in on it together.
“The reputable papers said you were innocent, anyway.”
“I guess that’s the best a guy like me can hope for. Thank you, Miss Sail”—his voice wavers—“for fighting for Lydia when I couldn’t.”
Emotion clogs my throat, keeping me from responding. But it doesn’t matter. Matthew has already hung up.
I hang the earpiece back on its hook and hold the phone on my lap for a minute.
What now?
It’s the question that won’t seem to go away. The one that gnaws at me even in my sleep. What do I do now that Lydia’s case has been solved? Now that I’m supposed to move on with my life?
I set the telephone beside me, on top of the morning newspaper, covering the picture of a suburban Chicago girl gone missing. I’ve already spent half my morning thinking about her, about her parents and siblings. The friends from school who aren’t mentioned in the article, but who are no doubt terrified. I hate that there are more. That just as the mystery of what happened to Lydia comes to a close for us, the nightmare is only beginning for others.
Perhaps I could help out somehow.
I exhale a laugh. I’m laid up on the couch, face and chest bandaged. And I don’t even know this girl. What on earth could I possibly do to help find her?
Yet the thought won’t go away, silly as it is, and Emma’s words from the hospital drown out my doubts: “I don’t think Chicago’s underbelly has seen the last of Piper Sail.”
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