As desperately as she’d wanted to come home, now that she was here, she hadn’t moved. Fern opened the door, and a breeze shuffled up her dress, warm and damp, even at this hour of night. Or morning. It had to be nearing dawn.
She stood with the door open, waiting for Cal to say something. Goodnight or I’m sorry. Anything. But he didn’t make a peep, and so she shut the door and crossed the road. The wide lane was utterly dark.
Her turret held no sign of life or light. Neither did Buchanan’s room on the third floor. If he’d gone out, it would still be far too early for him to be home yet. Fern often heard him coming in just before sunrise.
She’d left without her purse or coat, and once she reached the front door and tried the handle, there was no more doubt: Her parents had absolutely no idea that she’d been gone for hours on end—someone had locked the doors. Fern jiggled the handle, but it wouldn’t budge.
She couldn’t ring the bell. Wake the entire house and then explain where she’d been? Never. But the photographs... A cold, prickly sweat broke out on her back again. The growl of an engine woke the night. The round, close-set headlamps on Cal’s Roadster cut across the front lawn as he pulled a U-turn and drove back the way he’d come. Fern dismissed the notion that he’d been waiting until she reached the front door. He’d probably only been lighting another cigarette.
The sound of his car faded, and she sat down on a wooden bench on the front portico. Buchanan would be home soon. He might be more understanding than their parents.
She tucked up her feet and closed her eyes. Her head was no longer spinning from whatever Vinny had put in her drink. She just felt exhausted—and very much the fool. The only fascinating man she’d ever met had turnedout to be a gangster. And she’d traipsed right into his world of trouble.
She must have fallen asleep. It only felt like a few minutes before she heard the slam of a car door and shoes scraping up the walkway toward the house. Fern lowered her feet to the ground and tried to compose herself, but Buchanan staggered back when he saw her.
“What in Christ are you doing out here?”
“Shhh.” She put a finger to her lips. “I didn’t have my key.”
The moon lit his face to a pale pearl, and he squinted in confusion. “What? Mother thought you went to your room after what happened with Cal—” Buchanan pulled back, his brow smoothing out. “Mr. Black.”
He’d known who Cal really was. How many other guests at the dinner had known? Fern read the papers—most of the time. The Rosetti gang had some play on the pages, but not much in comparison to other, larger names like Capone, of course, and Johnny Torrio and Dean O’Banion. He’d presented himself as Mr. Black, but that wasn’t so odd. Plenty of men like him bandied about different names.
“Don’t you mean Clean Calvin?” she replied, irritated.
“You were withhim?” Buchanan glared at her. “I should’ve guessed. The way you were acting around him was fucking disgusting.”
Her jaw sprang open. She’d heard him cuss before, but never at her.
“I didn’t know who he was.” She felt smallermaking that justification.
“Jesus, Fern.” He shook his head. “And now, you do?”
She nodded. Buchanan stuck his hands in his pockets and looked out over the lawn. He seemed to be thinking. She felt ill wondering what he would do once he saw the photographs.
She rubbed her arms, the silk cold under her palms. “Can we just go inside already?”
He let them in, then shed his jacket and shoes as Fern slipped off her heels. He wouldn’t look at her.
“I’ve been wanting you to get out of the house for God knows how long, and the first time you do, it’s with a fucking low-life criminal. What the hell were you thinking?”
She gaped at him. “You don’t understand. Everything got out of control, and I?—”
She stopped apologizing.Why should I?The only thing she felt guilty for was following Cal from the front yard after he’d left their home.
There was no way to explain. No way to make her brother understand. So, she left him without even trying.
6
The pictures arrived in a plain, brown paper envelope the next afternoon. Fern spent the morning sitting in her window, overlooking the front lawn, waiting for them to drop. It was a Sunday, so postal delivery was out of the question. That left special delivery by one of Rodney’s men.
The car pulled to a stop along the curb outside, and she sat forward in her window seat as the passenger and driver doors opened. She recognized Francis. The second man had been standing sentry in front of the black curtains at the speakeasy. A head taller than Francis and at least a foot broader in the shoulders and chest, he looked even larger and meaner in the sunlight. He resembled an icebox as he lumbered behind Francis, a thick-fingered hand smoothing down the front of his buttoned suit jacket.
Francis carried the envelope, and Fern was certain this second man had come along to ensure the package made its way into Judge Adair’s hands without trouble.
She touched the glass window, leaving behind a streak of perspiration.
All morning, she’d struggled with what to do. Tell her father? Warn him? Or perhaps the photographs wouldn’t arrive after all. What if Cal had been successful in convincing Rodney to wait?
