“I don’t think so.”
He exhales slowly. “It seems unreal. Like a nightmare.” He turns up the collar of his coat against the nip of the breeze. “What’s going on down there?”
Three houses down, at the LeVines’ fancy stone residence, men in bowler hats and long coats loiter on the sidewalk.
“I bet it’s reporters.” Nick adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses. “I’ve seen some out here before. Never like this though.”
My stomach lurches. Why would there be a group of reporters outside, unless—
The same fear thumping in my heart seems to streak across Nick’s face, and despite the skirts of my dress, I match my strides to his as we hurry along the sidewalk. Sidekick trots along, tongue hanging out, clearly enjoying the accelerated pace.
I scan the faces for clues of how grave the newsbreak is, but no one seems particularly grim. If Lydia were found dead, however, would the reporters be grim? Or would they—
Nick clasps a hand on the arm of a reporter scribbling on a notepad. “Hey, old boy. What’s all the fuss about around here?”
Nick’s voice is so chummy, I think he must know the man, but the reporter only gives him a cursory glance. “I don’t know who you work for, sport, but I don’t hand out scoops to the competition.”
A man nearby snorts, “Scoop? Larry, every paper in town is here.”
I finally find my voice, loud and laced with desperation. “Is it Lydia? Is she . . . ?”
Silence ripples through the crowd of men.
Larry shakes his head, his gaze going soft. “No, miss. Nothing like that. It’s the family’s chauffeur. Up and left.”
The relief is dizzying. “Thank God.”
“You a friend of the family, miss?”
“Lydia’s my best friend.” The words earn me an elbow in my ribs from Nick. He appears to be trying to send me some kind of message through eye contact, but—
“Why do you think the chauffeur would have left? Did he and Lydia have some kind of relationship?” Larry has a fresh page open, and holds his pencil poised to document my words.
“I . . .”
“She’s not interested in being interviewed, thank you.” Nick’s hand grasps my arm, pulling me through the crowd of men. Sidekick seems intent on wedging himself between my legs, and Nick’s hand on my arm is the only thing that keeps me from falling when I stumble over him.
The reporters call out questions to me—Any theories on why the chauffeur left? Was Lydia unhappy? Did the chauffeur have a special interest in Lydia?—but Nick tucks me under his arm and pulls me through the crowd. Folded against him, the cigarette smell of his coat is cloying, but I don’t move away.
For a moment, I fear they’ll follow, but the reporters seem more interested in staying close to the LeVines’ house. When I glance over my shoulder, I see why—the distinctive touring sedan is parked outside the LeVines’ house. Mariano and O’Malley must be there to talk about Matthew.
Once we’ve turned the corner, Nick releases me. “You okay?”
I nod.
“You sure?”
I take in a wobbling breath. “For a moment, I was sure they were going to tell us that Lydia was dead. So, yes, I’m fine.”
Nick’s fingers tremble as they reach inside his breast pocket and retrieve his pack of cigarettes. “They’re like leeches.”
I take another deep breath. “It’s just their job.”
Nick lights his cigarette and inhales deeply. “What do you think about Matthew? Was he already planning to leave? Are they trumping up a bunch of nothing? Or . . . ?”
I glance at my brother. “Matthew wouldn’t have hurt Lydia. He . . . he cares about her.”
Nick’s expression is guarded as we turn down State Street. “Cares about her? Because she was his employer’s daughter, or . . . ?”
This is going to be splashed all over the papers anyway, right? Better that he hear it from me. “Cares about her as in the way you care about Lydia.”
Nick winces. “I suppose I can’t blame him for that.” He takes another long drag of his cigarette. “And what does she think of him?”
I swallow. “You’re asking me to betray my best friend’s confidence, Nick.”
He barks out a humorless laugh. “That’s answer enough right there.”
What can I say to that? Sidekick tugs toward a bush in the Barrows’ front yard, sniffs, and lifts his leg.
Nick drops his cigarette butt and steps on it with the toe of his loafer. “Why did Matthew leave, then?”
“It’s . . .” My mind whirls with the details of the letter that I’ve already read dozens of times since yesterday afternoon. “It’s complicated.”