Emma’s voice—sweet and almost musical—breaks into the conversation. “I feel she’s bold for coming forward. Many girls in Willa Mae’s situation might have kept quiet for the embarrassment of it all.”
Including Lydia, should this turn out to be her situation. I can almost hear her saying she just wants to put the whole thing behind her, that she doesn’t want Matthew to find out. “I agree, Emma. She’s very brave. And I was glad to see it reported.”
“You’re worried Lydia might be in the same situation, aren’t you?” Her words are direct, but her tone soft.
“I am. I know they say white slavery is more buzz than sting . . .”
Jeremiah snorts. “The reason the politicians say that, Miss Sail, is because they don’t want to have to be responsible for it. But I’ll tell you the truth—for every Willa Mae Hermann who escapes, there’s dozens of girls who don’t.”
Emma flashes me a sympathetic glance before looking to her brother. “That’s not very uplifting, Jeremiah.”
He nods to me. “My apologies, Miss Sail.”
“Considering the frankness of this conversation, I think you had better call me Piper.”
Jeremiah’s mouth curls into a smile. A real smile, not his rakish grin or the closed-mouth pitying one from when he arrived. “Piper.”
I try to smile back at him, but I’m not sure I succeed. This should have been an exciting moment, having Jeremiah Crane drop by. We would have talked over superficial things, perhaps. The baseball season and Bessie Smith and Agatha Christie’s latest novel. I would have called Lydia and giggled with her. She would have preached to me out of our etiquette textbook on what to say and how to smile.
But instead, his first visit is somber and dark.
“Have the police any leads?” Emma’s voice breaks into my mental wanderings. Was I just sitting here staring off? “We had detectives come to our house, the same ones who were at school that day. But they weren’t sharing details, of course.”
“They’ve talked to all the neighbors in hope that someone saw something. But so far, no one did.”
“In a neighborhood like ours, doesn’t it seem unlikely?” There’s a suspicious tinge in Emma’s voice.
I think I like her.
“I agree.” Jeremiah settles against the back of the couch, looking so relaxed, I half expect him to loosen his tie. “If nothing else, you’d think Mrs. Applegate would have seen something. When I was a kid, Mama always said she never had to worry, because Mrs. Applegate had an eye on me at all times.”
“That’s because you’re trouble from the tips of your hair to the toes on your feet, brother dear.”
Jeremiah winks at me. “Everybody seems like trouble when compared to you, sweet Emma.”
I feel like I should jest back, but the part of me that knows how to be witty and flirtatious has been crowded out by emotions like dread and anxiety. “Jeremiah, did you take many notes during your conversation with Willa Mae? I would be interested in seeing them.”
The smiles on their faces fade.
“Yes, I took lots of notes.” His words are careful. “But I don’t know how helpful they would be if your hope is to find Lydia.”
“I just thought there might be something in there. Does she know who kidnapped her? What happened after that? Did she ever see any of the other girls, or was she isolated?”
Jeremiah’s gaze is steady on me. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks to Emma and then back at me. “The details that I didn’t put in the article . . . they’re so ill-suited for the public. I wouldn’t want to put you in the troubling position of reading them, Piper.”
“You’re not putting me in it. I’m asking it of you.”
“But you don’t know what’s in there. I do. And I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Silence descends on the room. I hold Jeremiah’s gaze until he looks away.
Emma stands. “We should be going. I’m sure you don’t feel like entertaining. We just wanted you to know we’re thinking about you.”
Jeremiah stands as well.
“Thank you.” My words are stiff, despite my sincerity. “Hopefully, next time we get together, we’ll be celebrating her return.”
Kindness shines in Emma’s eyes. “I pray diligently for Lydia to be returned home safely.”
Tears—which seem so much closer to the surface than ever before—spring in my eyes. “Thank you, Emma. I’ve started to feel as though I’m the only one who still thinks she’ll be found . . .” The tightness in my chest won’t let me squeeze out the word alive. It’s a wonderful word that I should be able to shout—alive!—but it’s lodged in my lungs.
When Jeremiah’s fingertips graze the underside of my elbow, I know I faded out on them again. “Telephone if you need anything. Anything at all.”