“I know.”
“He’s going to move soon. Or escalate the law enforcement pressure to force you into moving.”
“I hope he’s not.”
We sit with this for a moment. The lamp throws its rose light across the desk. The cat audibly breathes. My heart lodges itself in my throat.
“My fee,” Margaret Finch says, setting down her tea, “is forty dollars a day plus expenses. I don’t take cases I don’t intend to finish, and I don’t give progress reports until I have something worth reporting.” She opens her desk drawer and produces a card, which she slides across the desk. “My number. Call it anytime. I keep unusual hours.”
I pick up the card. It matches the sandwich board. Pale blue. Neat cursive lettering.Margaret Eleanor Finch. Discreet Inquiries & Curious Matters.And at the bottom, in smaller print:No mystery too old, no matter too small.
“There’s one more thing,” I say.
“There usually is,” she replies pleasantly.
“I need you to keep this absolutely private, especially from the Calloway pack.”
Something moves through her expression, not the analytical look, something more personal. The look that belongs to a person who has been in a place for thirty-nine years and takes its wellbeing seriously.
“I told you, my lips are sealed,” she says.
I nod. “How long do you think it will take?”
“For a name and background? Three days, possibly two. I have contacts in the city that owe me considerable favors.” She writes something in the journal.
“Two days,” I say. “If possible.”
“I’ll do my best.” She looks up. “In the meantime stay stationary. I know that goes against every instinct you have.” She holds my gaze with the clear, direct attention of someone who has been reading people for eighty years and is very good at it. “You’ve found somewhere worth staying. That matters. Don’t let him take it from you.”
I look at her. “How do you know it’s worth staying?”
“You’re still here,” she says. Simply. “Four days, and you’re still here, and you came into my office asking how to fight rather than asking which road to take.” She picks up her shortbread. “That’s a person who’s found somewhere worth staying.”
I look at the pale blue card in my hand.
I look at the wall of green journals.
Thirty-nine years of other people’s secrets, kept.
“Thank you,” I reply.
“Come back in two days. I’ll have something for you.” She opens her file again, the conversation complete. “Take a shortbread for the walk. You look like you haven’t eaten enough today.”
I take a shortbread. She’s not wrong.
I let myself out into the cobblestone morning and stand on the street. I put the card in my jacket pocket next to the tin trophy.
Two days.
I can hold the line for two days.
Chapter 11
Jack
Here’s what I know about people who don’t laugh easily: When they do laugh, it’s real. No faking, no social lubricant, no the-situation-calls-for-it reflex. People who laugh easily laugh at everything and mean none of it. People who don’t laugh easily—people like Lola—when they laugh, it comes from somewhere real.
I have made it my mission this week to find out what really makes her laugh.
