Chapter 15
Disreputable though we look, the cash in Adrian’s pocket allows us to secure tickets to Boston.
We arrive just in time to board a Pullman car for New York.
Before retiring for bed, I spend a long time in the washroom, attempting to put myself back into some kind of order.
I catch myself avoiding my reflection in the mirror again and feel a brief surge of despair.
Everything had been going, not perfectly, but well enough. I’d been living the quiet life I craved after the war and the hospital. Now I’ve lost a year, and my brain is more broken than ever, and…
I’m exhausted. Sleep will help. Perhaps things won’t seem so bleak in the morning.
I collapse into the lower bunk and can barely stay awake long enough to pull the curtains. But the deep, restful sleep I’d hoped for quickly turns into strange, uneasy dreams.
I’m standing high atop some sort of stone structure, staring out over a steamy landscape of tall conifers separated by wide paths. Far off in the distance, light glints off water—the ocean. The air is hot and thick, but I’m perfectly comfortable, at least physically.
Mentally is another matter. I need to leave, to escape, but I somehow know that simply running off into the trees won’t help. I’m trapped, and the whole world is my prison.
Someone comes up behind me. I turn and—
“Sterling? Wake up.”
I gasp awake, the remains of the dream clinging to me like a spiderweb. I’m about to see something terrible, I know it even though I can’t say what it is, and my entire body cringes back as I open my eyes…
But it’s only Adrian’s handsome face peering at me through a gap where he’s drawn the curtain aside.
“You were moaning,” he says with a sympathetic look. “Dreaming about the war?”
“I don’t think so. Just a nightmare.” Light seeps around the shade covering the window. “Is it morning?”
“Yes. We have just enough time to get a quick breakfast in the dining car.”
As we’re leaving the Pullman car, the porter arrives to put away the upper bunk and convert the lower back to seats. Adrian speaks with him quietly for a few moments, then smiles and slips him some cash. Over a breakfast of ham and eggs, I ask Adrian about it.
“Someone tried to kill you in Widdershins, then followed us out of town to try and finish the job,” he murmurs, barely loud enough for me to hear him above the clink of plates and knives from our fellow diners.
“I doubt they’ll figure out we took this train, but it never pays to make assumptions when you can make plans instead.
Mr. Collins—the porter—will swear to anyone who asks that he never laid eyes on us. ”
The train slows, eventually reaching a platform in Grand Central Terminal where we disembark. Adrian pauses at a newsstand and buys three different papers, which he tucks under his arm. “I suggest we pay a visit to your partner Mr. Olden,” he says as we walk away.
“I thought you said we had a falling out—that I left Forgotten Folios.”
“You did, but I want to question him more closely about Mr. Hart.” Adrian squints up at the nearest clock. “Does he usually go into the store on Sunday?”
“It would depend on how much work we have to catch up on.” Except it’s no longer we. “Unless he’s hired someone to replace me, he’ll likely be there. His mother thinks he goes to church.”
“What about you? Do you go to church?”
Surely he already knows the answer, if he’s been investigating me. “Not since the war.”
He nods, and I catch a glimpse of mutual understanding in his eyes. “Let’s find a payphone, then make our way to Book Row.”
I trail along behind him, feeling at a loss.
I’m finally back on familiar ground—I’ve been in Grand Central countless times over the years since moving to the city—but I’m still adrift.
We pause at a bank of pay phones so he can put in a call to his office to alert them to the painting, and no doubt warn them about the men and trucks we saw.
Whatever is going on at Hart’s Leap, it’s someone else’s problem now.
We take the elevated train to Fourth Street, near Book Row.
On the train, I borrow one of the newspapers from Adrian, staring at the date and the headlines.
Sunday, October 2, 1927. According to the Daily News, at least eighty-nine people died from a tornado in Saint Louis, an accused murderer is hiding in a swamp, and a woman has stolen one-hundred thousand dollars from her employer.
It all seems very far away, no more real than a children’s storybook.
We alight not far from Forgotten Folios, which lies on Fourth just south of Astor Place, in the heart of Book Row. The street is much quieter than usual on Sunday, though a few of the tiny shops tucked into out-of-the-way cubbyholes are operating in defiance of the blue laws.
Not much has changed since last I was here, which is some comfort.
Hundreds of booksellers cluster in Book Row, in shops that range from multi-story edifices filled with neat shelves of antiquarian treasures, to dark caves so stuffed with cheap books it’s hard to actually get inside.
Every day of the week except for Sunday, the sidewalks are crowded with shoppers: penny-pinchers digging through bins of discounted volumes, eccentric collectors hunting for rare first editions, book runners looking to sell their tomes for a tidy profit, even the random casual sightseer.
Forgotten Folios is an unassuming shop in the midst of the chaos, tucked in between a bookstore run by the owner’s nephew while he serves jail time for shooting an impertinent customer, and another operated by a woman so old she might have lived here since the time of the Dutch colonizers and her store simply grown up around her along with the city.
The storefront itself is narrow, its blue door firmly closed this morning. The sign above swings slightly in the breeze, and my steps slow as I approach. Forgotten Folios, established 1921.
I’d felt such relief the day the sign was installed.
As though I’d turned a corner in my life, putting the war behind me, along with the endless arguments with my family.
James and I had our picture taken beneath it, and I sent a copy to my father.
His return letter gloomily predicted we’d go out of business in six months.
How had I walked away from this? Why?
Adrian peers in the single large window. “There aren’t any lights on.”
“James might be working in the back.” I reach for the doorknob automatically and am surprised when it turns. “Unlocked—he must be here somewhere.”
Adrian frowns slightly. “Would he leave it unlocked even though the store is closed?”
“Probably—a book runner in the city for the weekend might turn up, or even one of our regular customers whom we sometimes indulge.” I arch a brow. “Are you going to turn us in for violating the blue laws?”
“It’s fairly far down on your list of crimes, so probably not.”
His words sober me instantly. And make me wonder if he really trusts me as much as he claims.
I push open the door, and the familiar tinkle of the bell rings through the bookstore.
Forgotten Folios is much deeper than it is wide, rows of bookshelves unfurling away from the street.
Despite everything, the familiar smell of books soothes my nerves, as though nothing truly bad could happen in their presence.
“Mr. Olden?” Adrian calls. “Are you here?”
No answer. Still, if he’d closed the door to the small room in the back where we made coffee and stored our safe, he might not have heard.
I start deeper into the shop, Adrian behind me. Colorful volumes lay heaped on tables, and I automatically stop, my mind trying to catalog them before recalling that’s no longer my job.
Adrian catches me. “Sterling? Is something wrong?”
I shake my head—an obvious lie—and move forward again, past the rows of shelves and the occasional book-related knickknack, like the truly terrible bust of Shakespeare that James bought for reasons beyond my comprehension.
Maybe he’ll take me back as his partner if I explain what happened. Not that I have any idea myself.
James’s desk sits halfway down the length of the store, neat as always and quite deserted. My desk is—was—as far away from the door as possible, hidden from the view of casual shoppers. Perhaps he’s working on something there, since he’s had to take over my duties as well.
Or hired someone to replace me. I push the thought aside for the moment.
“James?” I call, navigating around the barrier formed by a display cabinet filled with our most fragile tomes, ones we don’t want handled by greasy-fingered customers. “I need to speak to you. I—”
My desk comes into sight, and my entire body goes cold.
It’s much neater now than when I left—my brain seizes on that detail, as though it might protect me from the rest. All of my clutter is gone, replaced by a small stack of books and a piece of paper. Both are spattered with blood.
James sags in the chair, a knife thrust into his neck, blood still dripping gently from his collar.