Walter pulled a flannel blanket from the linen closet and draped it around my shoulders once we’d settled onto the back stoop. We sat in silence for a while, the rhythm of breathing and the comfort of being with a friend lulling me like a bedtime song.
I yawned. “I could sleep, I think, but somehow it feels wrong. Like I have no right to be comfortable in my bed when Lydia isn’t in hers.”
“Doesn’t help her any for you to lose sleep.”
“I know it’s senseless. But I’m a girl.”
“You’re not the senseless type, though. And don’t change that.”
We fell silent again, and my mind drifted to the notebook sitting up on my desk, the one I intended to give to Detective Cassano. In the last hour, my writings had started to sound like those of a lunatic. I had gone so far as to brainstorm reasons why my future stepmother or Ms. Underhill might have taken Lydia.
“Oh, Walter, where is she?” Tears brewed from exhaustion and anxiety dripped from my eyes. “The detective said it looks like she didn’t just run away, but who would have taken her?”
He coaxed me against his shoulder. “I don’t know. But it makes me never want to let you or Mother out of my sight again.”
The scenario that had plagued my thoughts all night long finally emerged. “What if someone did take her and she has a seizure?”
Walter’s breath caught, and I knew he too was thinking of the Other Lydia. Lydia with the rolled-back eyes, absent mind, and soiled skirts. “I don’t know.”
“Father’s asleep in the front room. He . . . he has his gun out.”
“He’s just nervous, is all. Eighteen-year-old girl goes missing from the neighborhood. Not only does he have an eighteen-year-old girl, but also a long list of criminal-types who he’s angered over the years.” Walter squeezed my shoulder. “Nothing for you to be worried about, though.”
Now as I stretch awake in the late-morning sun, last night’s conversation seems far away. Outside, birds hum merry songs and the lemon-yellow light declares that this is a beautiful late-spring morning. I should have been at school hours ago. Right now, I would be sitting in Ms. Underhill’s stupid class, making a dress that will never fit me right and suffering her distaste for me.
What I wouldn’t give to be living that day instead of this one.
My stomach groans with hunger. No surprise considering it’s after eleven, and I only picked at my supper last night. But instead of finding breakfast, I cross the room to my desk. The notebook sits where I left it before venturing downstairs. I rip out the last page, full of incoherent rambling, and review my other notes. A list of neighbors and their relationships with the LeVine family. A list of all the household staff I could remember, and who had been fired when and for what reason. A list of any members of the community whom Dr. and Mrs. LeVine didn’t seem to get along with (that list was the shortest by far), and another list of everything I could remember talking about recently with Lydia.
I think of the gun lying against Father’s chair and poise my pen above the notebook. But what about that could possibly be helpful to the detectives? Walter was probably right; my best friend went missing from three houses down, and it naturally made my father paranoid. That’s all it was.
I close my eyes and pray—something I’ve done more in the last day than in the last five years combined—that even a single item I’ve written down might be useful to bringing Lydia home.
Detective Cassano opens the gate at 2:57. He smiles and tips his homburg when he sees me sitting on the front steps. “Good afternoon, Miss Sail.”
“It’s Piper, please.” My hands are clammy against the notebook I clutch. “And good afternoon, detective.”
He stops at the bottom of the stairs and rests his elbow against the rail. I can just make out the lump of his holstered gun. “If you insist on me calling you Piper, then it seems you should call me Mariano.”
Mariano Cassano. It has a musical quality to it, like a familiar but forgotten tune. “I’ve never known a Mariano before.”
His lips curl into a slight smile. “Family name.”
“Mine too. It was my mother’s maiden name. Father wanted to call me Caroline, after his mother, but mine insisted on Piper. So I’m Piper Caroline.”
Detective Cassano’s—Mariano’s—dark gaze stays steady on me as I share more about my name than he likely cares to hear. Is he as young as he looks? He’s handsome, with his olive skin and strong jaw. He might even be strikingly handsome, were I of the mindset to be struck.
“Are you able to take a walk around the block with me, Piper? I thought you could help familiarize me with the neighbors.”
My heart leaps—that sounds like I might actually be useful. “Of course. Just let me tell my family.”
I pull open the door, dash down the hallway toward the kitchen, and practically run into Walter. “Oh, hi. I’m taking a walk with Detective Cassano. I’ll be back in a bit.”
His face folds into a deep frown. “I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t need to.”