Page 55 of City of Liars

“You call it misguided? I call it justice.” My mother’s voice rose louder. “Those bastards stole Lily and raised her goyishe. Well, the world’s going to find out they’re descended from poor Jews. They’re not the high-and-mighty WASPs they claim to be, and soon everyone will know it.” Hands on her hips, she stared me down. “I put down a retainer, and my lawyer will take the rest on contingency. I’m going to sue the pants off those bigoted thieves. And we’ll see who has the last laugh then.”

“You—” I opened and shut my mouth, so angry I couldn’t find the words to speak. I took a step toward our mother, fury making me shake all over, but Will pressed both hands against my chest, pushing me back.

“Go,” he said, pointing to the living room. “I’ll handle this.”

I took a deep breath, trying to bring myself under control. My mother’s words from this afternoon, You’re just like me, echoed in my ears. Maybe that was true, maybe it wasn’t. But I knew one thing: I refused to be like my father. No matter how much I longed to shake some sense into her, I would never, ever do it. Nodding at Will in curt acknowledgment, I turned, heading for the doorway.

“That’s right,” my mother called after me. “Do what you do best. Run away.”

I froze, about to turn back. But behind me, Will spoke up, his voice steady. “No one’s running anywhere. Just go, Theo. I’ll work this out.”

I managed to leave, but it was an effort. Gritting my teeth, I made my way into the living room, where Grandma Susi sat in her favorite armchair.

She smiled at me, and it was like someone had yanked the shutters open in a dark room. “Did I hear shouting?”

Thank God for her lousy hearing. “No big deal, Grandma. You know how Mom gets.”

She brushed a strand of hair from my face, and I hoped she couldn’t read the anger I was working hard to hide. “Always with the hair in your eyes. How are you, bubbeleh?”

“I’m good, Grandma. How are you feeling? How’s your hip?” She’d broken it a couple years before, and though she’d had a successful replacement surgery, I knew it still bothered her.

“Eh, nothing to complain about. Those people at the home, they have me on death’s door the moment the slightest thing bothers me. I tell them, I’m not going anywhere.” She cupped my chin. “You know what’s strange, though, Theodore?”

“No, Grandma. What?” I arched a brow, trying to figure out how I could possibly turn this conversation to our search without upsetting her—when she did it for me.

“I’ve been dreaming about my mother,” she said. “I haven’t dreamed of her in years, may her memory be a blessing. But the other night, I saw her, wearing her favorite green dress. She looked almost happy. I had forgotten she could look that way.” Tears glossed her eyes. “I wanted to tell her how sorry I was for everything that happened, but she disappeared.”

Her favorite green dress. Just like in my dream. What the ever-loving hell?

“I’m sure she forgives you, Grandma,” I managed, echoing what May had told me and feeling as freaked out as I had when I’d woken up to hear my piano play. “Wherever she is, I’m sure she’s not still upset with you. In her heart, she knew it wasn’t your fault.”

She patted my hand. One of the tears escaped, tracing a path through the wrinkles that lined her cheeks. Fishing a tissue out of the giant satchel she’d carried as long as I could remember, she wiped the tear away. “You’re a sweet boy. But my mother died cursing me on the back ward of that terrible place. Still, it was nice to dream of her. When I woke, I thought of my sister. And I remembered this.”

She dug in her purse again. “I don’t think I’ve ever showed this to you, zeeskeit.” Sweetness, it meant. “I took it to the home with me, but I put it safe away. After that dream, though—I can’t explain it, but I wanted to look at my sister’s face.”

I held still, barely breathing, as she took a small envelope from her purse. Her trembling fingers opened the flap.

In her creased hand lay a sepia photograph. From it, Ella Carter stared up at me, wearing a black velvet coat with a white fur collar and clutching a tiny puppy in her arms. Though she was a little older here, I recognized her from the newspaper photographs that had been taken to celebrate her return.

I thought of the picture from my dream, the one that had drifted just out of reach: a sliver of black velvet, the slant of a child’s face, the wide dark eyes of a small dog. An arctic finger traced its way down my spine. “I don’t understand, Grandma. Where did this come from?”

She looked down at the ancient photograph. “Charles, that gonif, handed it to me, as payment for his guilt. Not that he admitted he’d stolen our Lily—no, he would never say that! He said it was to ease Mama’s mind, that if it made her feel better to have such a thing, he would give it to her, and gladly. But pah! It was all a lie.”

She pursed her lips, as if to lock a curse inside. “Easy for him to act as if it was all in her mind, as if he was giving us these pictures of his Ella to pacify a crazy person. But my mama wasn’t crazy, and this was like an ice pick through the heart. Better Lily should be poor and with her family than rich and with those goyim.”

My heart started pounding, making me lightheaded. “Grandma, do you know exactly when Lily disappeared? What day?”

His grandmother’s thin eyebrows rose. “Why do you ask, zeeskeit?”

“I—no reason.” I fought to keep my face blank, not to think of the little girl lying in the morgue. The one that hadn’t been Ella. “Looking at these pictures, I guess I just wondered how much you remember.”

“I remember the moment I knew she was gone,” she said slowly. “The way it made me feel, colder inside even than the snow. I know it was a weekday, because the milkman came that afternoon. But the date…ach, no, Theodore.”

“That’s okay, Grandma,” I said, hiding my disappointment. I’d have to find another way. “So, Charles Carter gave you this photo? Do you have any others?”

My heart thumped unevenly as she reached into the envelope and drew out another picture. In this one, Ella/Lily looked a little younger. Her blond hair was a bell-shaped curve, the polished strands cupping her face. She stood next to a grand piano, her hand resting on its polished surface. Behind her was a window, through which I could glimpse the wrought iron fence that hemmed Gramercy Park.

I had stood in that room, had touched that piano. This was the Carters’ apartment.