Page 64 of Hawk & Sparrow

“Don’t know anyone named Francis,” he muttered. He shoved his hands into his pockets, then stepped around her to continue down the sidewalk.

“No,” said Vesper slowly. “But you do know who I’m talking about. You knew Francis by a different name, didn’t you?”

The man faltered in his steps.

“You look just like him,” Vesper went on. “He must have been a cousin, or—”

“Brother.”

“What?”

The man took a deep breath, then turned around to face her again. His expression was hard, but there was pain in his eyes. “Frankie was my little brother.”

Frankie? Vesper’s pulse quickened. “I’m sorry for your loss. I’ve spent most of this month trying to figure out who’s responsible for your brother’s death,” said Vesper. “But I keep running into dead ends, there are too many questions around who your brother really was. I was hoping maybe you’d have some answers.”

“Sorry.” The man shook his head. “I can’t help you.”

“But—”

“Please.” The man’s eyes glistened. “What happened to Frankie … I think about it all the time. He was my little brother and I wasn’t there for him, even though I promised—” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. He’s gone, and there’s no changing that. I’ve accepted that, miss. You should too.”

“What’s your name?”

The man’s brows shot up. “Stanley Dawson. Most people call me Stan, though.”

“Stan, I know what it’s like to feel as though you’ve failed someone,” Vesper said quietly. She didn’t know where the words were coming from, but she trusted them. “I had a younger sibling too once, a little sister. She’s gone, just like your little brother’s gone.” She swallowed. It was still easy to remember Ethel’s round brown face, the way her small hands had felt holding on to Vesper’s. Vesper pushed that thought down and went on. “I can’t do anything for my little sister,” she said. “But you have something I don’t. You have the power to help find justice for your brother. Maybe you weren’t there for him when he died, but you can still be there for him now.”

Stan’s expression softened slightly. Vesper saw an opening, and took it.

“Look.” She held up her hands. “I’ll make you a deal. Give me ten minutes of your time, just enough to ask you a few quick questions and”—she looked around, trying to think fast—“and I’ll buy you lunch, my treat. There’s a coffeehouse just down the road, Guillermo’s. They’ve got the best soups and sandwiches in the city.”

Stan’s expression hardened again. “That’s it? You think you can just bribe me with food like a dog?”

“No,” said Vesper calmly. “But I do think it’s been a while since you’ve had a good meal. As I understand it, welders in Basalton don’t make much.”

Stan’s eyes narrowed with new suspicion.

“Ten minutes.” Vesper’s hands were still raised. “That’s all I’m asking. Please.”

Stan shifted his weight from foot to foot. After a few seconds, he bit his lip and met her gaze again.

“Where’s this coffeehouse?”

Mr. Crivello didn’t notice her as she and Stanley found a small table toward the back of the coffeehouse. She ordered food for them both—apple and grilled cheese sandwiches with two bowls of roasted tomato soup—then settled into a chair across from the man and gestured.

“Enjoy.”

Stanley didn’t touch his food. His eyes were fixed on her, suspicious. “How’d you know I was a welder?” he asked.

Vesper nibbled at a corner of her sandwich. “Your hands.”

Stan looked down at his hands, then back up at her, confused.

“They’re covered in burns,” she offered. “I suppose you could have also been a cook, but you aren’t wearing the right clothes.” She shrugged. “I took a lucky guess.”

Stan’s frown deepened. “You some kind of fancy detective?”

“Actually, I’m a reporter,” said Vesper. “Now, let me ask you a question: The first time you saw me, when I thought you were Francis and called out to you, why’d you run?”