Chapter Thirty-Nine
I am breathless with how awry this evening has gone.
I’m still weak and sickened by the glimpse we were given into the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire.
I blink as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle points at me and orders me to find the Hope Diamond.
Honestly, I have no idea where it might be.
None of this evening has gone as we’d hoped. As we’d planned.
I pause. Breathe…
Still nothing from Spirit. Just… silence.
I am so hollow, I ache; there’s a cavity in my soul.
Doyle nudges me to the chair at the head of the table again.
“Sit. Tell us where the Hope Diamond is.” His deep Scottish accent booms. The guests have all pushed toward me, glaring.
They are messy, disheveled, clothing torn and tattered, their jaws and fists tight, cords in their necks straining.
They demand answers. My heart thrums in my ears.
I scan the room, but there is no escape.
The guests press in farther, and I am reminded of the crowd of zealots gathered on the streets below.
Reverend Jenkins and his cronies, all mustered near city hall, chanting, “Witch! Sorcerer! Occultist!” I am those things, am I not?
What kind of creature creates the scene we just experienced, if not an evil one?
What kind of person creates a scenario where her friend is now captive and accused?
I feel sick. Trapped, like a kitten surrounded by wolves.
I have no information—not that Spirit would’ve answered my query anyway—so I remain steadfast to our original plan.
Which is: the safe. It was always supposed to be the grand finale of the séance.
But has Pax had enough time?
My pulse hammers. I widen my eyes. “Does Blanck have a safe?”
“Excuse me?” Blanck says. He’s at the bar cabinet, helping himself to another double scotch. His bow tie is askew. I have a moment of wanting to pretend to straighten it, then using it to choke the life out of him.
I blink away that desire. Whew—the absence of Spirit changes me.
“Is there—a safe?” I ask. “In this apartment? Spirit is showing me an image of a safe.”
Spirit is showing me no such thing. I am simply sticking to our plan.
Doyle’s mustache twitches at Blanck. “Well? Is there?”
Blanck scowls. “Yes, of course there is a safe. I am not opening it in front of—” His eyes scan the crowd. “Anyone else. And definitely not on the recommendation of some illusionist scam artist.”
It’s difficult to do, lie calmly, after this evening’s wild twists and turns. I am afraid my terror will betray me. “Spirit says check the safe.”
Doyle twists his mustache again. “Check the safe…,” he mutters.
CRASH!
It’s the sound of an explosion.
I crouch, my heart thundering against my rib cage.
The massive bar cabinet topples against the marble floor of the foyer, and Blanck dives out of the way.
Shards of glass fly like shrapnel. More screams from guests; they duck and cover their heads.
The sharp pinch of alcohol fills the air.
Bottles and glasses roll about. One decanter spins and spins and comes at last to rest.
The crowd’s already-wrought nerves jangle. The scent of urine wafts about, and I realize someone has pissed their unders. I peek out from under my crossed arms to where the furniture toppled. I am so shaken, my teeth chatter.
And there, in the empty space where the bar cabinet once stood, is Nirav. Oh, thank God he is safe! In my eyesight, the entire room darkens, and small, silent Nirav stands seething with anger, as obvious as if he had a Broadway spotlight on him.