Walter’s eyes slide closed. “Piper, you didn’t.”
I take a deep breath. “I looked at a map and saw it wasn’t so far from school. So after you dropped me off this morning, I—”
His eyes snap open. “How could you do that, Piper? How could you take a risk like that? If Lydia got taken on Astor Street, can’t you see how much more dangerous it is for you to be alone in a neighborhood where—”
“But I didn’t go by myself. Mariano came with me.”
“Mariano.” Walter repeats the name in a flat way.
“I called him this morning just so someone would know where I was, and then he said—”
Walter’s mouth twists into a snarl. “It was probably his idea, wasn’t it? That you should come with him. As if he’s so concerned about Lydia.”
“He is concerned about Lydia! It’s his job, Walter.”
“And flirting with you? Is that part of his job too? Is that how he finds missing girls?”
Sidekick whimpers and cowers farther behind my seat. “You’re scaring Sidekick.”
Walter’s mouth sets in a firm line. “I wish I were scaring you. You can’t take risks like that, Piper. You just . . . can’t.”
“That’s why I didn’t tell you this morning. I knew you’d tell me no. I knew you’d stop me.”
“Because it’s dangerous! Because I don’t want you ending up like Lydia. Why does that make me the bad guy?”
I inhale slowly through my nose, trying to calm myself before words come out that I’ll regret. I reach to the backseat and pat Sidekick’s head stiffly. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”
“I want to keep you safe.” Walter’s words are quiet.
“I know you do. But I can’t sit around being sad and scared. Not when it feels like there’s a ticking clock. If she has another seizure . . .” Tears threaten to overtake my words, and I clamp down on my bottom lip.
We sit there for a bit, the muffled sounds of traffic and pedestrians around us. Finally, Walter rakes in a breath and turns the ignition. “Let’s go home.”
Walter is silent as I feed Joyce my story about eating lunch outside and Sidekick finding me. I spend my afternoon bathing and brushing and cutting out mats from his fur. It’s easier to touch him like this, when it’s about accomplishing a task rather than offering affection. Sidekick makes no protest, just leans on me occasionally. When Joyce—who’d been reluctant to the idea of a big, possibly flea-ridden dog entering her clean house—sees him again, she warms to the idea of a pet. His fur isn’t brown, but rather the color of fresh cream, and there isn’t a flea in sight.
Joyce shelves the cans of dog food that Walter and I bought at the store on our way home. “Once these patches grow back in, you’ll be a real beauty.”
Sidekick only cowers at the praise.
When I leave the kitchen, he slinks alongside me, gaze darting about as if danger might be anywhere. “Settle in, Sidekick. It’s your new home.”
But in my room, he only stands in the corner and watches as I unload my shopping bag. I put my dress in the laundry hamper and then stare at the photograph of Lydia. The demure smile, the curled hair. All so very Lydia.
“I’m trying to bring you home,” I whisper.
I sink onto my bed. Something beneath me crinkles.
I stand and find a long white envelope with my name scratched on in painstaking capital letters. No stamp or address. Clearly, it didn’t come by post. Fear prickles up the back of my neck as my gaze slides to my third-story window.
Closed, but not locked.
I rip it open and flip over the pages to find the signature.
Matthew.
My breath whooshes out of my lungs, and I sink to my bed to devour his words.
Miss Sail,
You should know straight away that I lied to you that day in the alley, when you asked me about Lydia, if I knew how she felt about me. Yes, I knew. And I want you to know before I tell you any of this that I loved her too. As much as a man like me is capable of loving, anyway.
I lied because I was sure that if the police knew my past, they’d have me in a cell in no time, and I wanted to be here when we got Lydia back. I don’t have much hope of that anymore.
Before coming to Chicago, I lived in Kansas City, where I worked for a man named Jim Burk. He was a small-time criminal who imagined himself more important than he was. His cousins are Patrick and Colin Finnegan, and I think Jim thought of himself as a branch of their operation. Anyway, I didn’t much care how Jim painted himself. All I cared about was that I made good money, which I did.