Page 62 of Hawk & Sparrow

Maximilian looked slightly stung, but nodded. “O-kay,” he said slowly. “I’ll … see you tomorrow, then.” He tipped his hat, then headed toward the cemetery’s exit. Vesper knew she should have gone after him, but something kept her feet rooted to where she stood. Now that she was alone, an emotion she’d kept tamped down over the last five days was finally bubbling to the surface. It took her a moment to name it.

Anger.

She knew that that wasn’t the right emotion. Anger wasn’t what she should have felt in the wake of a man’s murder. But the longer Vesper stared at Charles Belver’s grave, the angrier she became.

She’d had him.

She’d been close, so close, to concluding this investigation. The pieces had been set on the chessboard, and she’d only been a few moves away from taking the queen. Then, without any warning, that entire board had been overturned, cleared away, and reset as though the game had never happened. It was easier to think about it that way than to reconcile with the other truth.

She’d missed her chance.

Belver was dead, and with his death any chance for a confession and the truth was gone. Without a confession, Maximilian wasn’t exonerated, and without that exoneration, she wouldn’t be able to collect the money for the Globe. She had no other leads to chase, and she was running out of time. Belver was dead, and so was her investigation.

She turned away from the grave and left the private section of the cemetery, but she continued to walk among the dirt paths between the rows of headstones. In the past, walking had sometimes shaken loose new ideas in her mind, and she was going to need a new idea fast. It was the eighteenth, which meant she only had one week and five days to figure this out.

It’s not enough time, a panicked voice whispered. You can’t solve a crime in twelve days with no suspects or leads.

Vesper frowned, then promptly smothered that voice.

“Vesper?”

She turned to find Ada coming her way. This afternoon, she was wearing an elegant black lace dress that Vesper suspected cost more than some people in Basalton made in a whole month. The young woman stopped before her, her expression cautious.

“You’re upset,” she murmured. “I can see it all over your face.”

Vesper didn’t answer.

“It’s not because of Belver though,” Ada pressed. “Is it?”

Vesper sighed, and felt her shoulders relax slightly. She couldn’t explain it, but there was something refreshing about Ada’s candor, her directness. For the last week, she’d been asked any number of times if she was all right; it was a relief, for the first time, to speak to someone who knew she wasn’t all right.

Ada pointed to a wooden bench beneath a large oak tree. “Join me?”

Together, they settled on the bench, and for several seconds, the two of them simply sat in silence. Finally, Vesper broke it.

“Have your parents said anything else about your wedding to Mr. Calhoun?”

Ada shook her head and shrugged. “I convinced my mother to hold off until at least spring so that we can incorporate the florals she likes.” She laughed humorlessly. “That at least buys me a little more time.” She turned to Vesper. “But you’re deflecting. Tell me what’s bothering you, really.”

Vesper shook her head. “I can’t talk about it.”

Ada’s expression turned briefly teasing. “Why? Because you’re a reporter and you deal with sensitive information?” She crossed her arms. “You know, I may not be a reporter, Vesper, but I know how to be a decent friend.” She reached out and squeezed Vesper’s hand. “You can trust me too.”

They were simple words, but something in Vesper softened. She’d had a real family once, and found a second one at the Globe, but Vesper realized she’d never really had any female friends. Most of the young women her age weren’t interested in the same things she was, and though she’d tried a few times to strike up friendships with other girls on her block, few had taken interest in a girl who preferred to bury her nose in a book over discussing which boy was cutest. She’d always felt that ever-present split, the decision to be herself, or to be acceptable. With Ada though, Vesper found that she didn’t have to choose. It was easy to talk to her, to be herself. She took a deep breath, and made a decision.

“I need to tell you something,” she whispered. “I’m not really writing an exposé on the rich. I’m investigating Francis Gladwell’s murder to try to find out who killed him. It … isn’t going well.”

For a long while, Ada said nothing. Then: “You’re trying to help prove Maximilian is innocent,” she said slowly.

Vesper nodded. “But I’m stuck. All this time, I thought it was Belver, but with him dead and no confession, I’m back to square one.”

Ada pursed her lips. “If you still believe it was him, you could take the information you have to the police?”

Vesper shook her head. “There’s not enough evidence, and there are still too many unanswered questions.”

Ada sat back on the bench. “Maybe he left clues, something that could still tie him to Francis’s murder.”

Vesper pulled the journal out from the folds of her dress. “All I have is this.”