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Rose says, “We have the address if you want it. August made sure all the girls had it. He paid for the train tickets, too, and gave money to those who left.” She shakes her head. “But he was killed, and Ira told us if we try to run, he’d bring us back and sell us to the Bed Bug Row houses.”

“And everyone knows what happens there,” Flora adds.

Grace whispers something incoherent and wipes the tears from her face with a sleeve of her dress.

Jo’s fingers brush over her Kodak gently.

She thought she knew her husband, but can you truly know someone? He definitely didn’t know the real Jo. She never told him her real name. He never suspected he was married to a miller’s daughter who learned how to read a few months before they met. He didn’t know anything about her past. Ever so careful, she told him she came to Chicago for a fresh start, and he gave it to her.

But she thought that after spending ten years together, she knew the real August. Then why didn’t he trust her enough to tell her what he was doing for the girls? Maybe she’s wrong, and he wanted to share with her all the dark things he had to do, and every time he came close to revealing it all, he lost his nerve and decided not to. But why? August was always very careful with money, and she’d wondered. Why such careful spending? Why not expand the business, open a new gallery, get a bigger darkroom, buy newer equipment? She attributed it all to his frugal nature. If she knew what he was doing, she could’ve helped him. All she ever wanted was to be not just his wife but his business partner too. To be by his side, doing the exact same things.

Then it clicks.

Trust was never an issue. August being August—responsible and thoughtful—didn’t want to fail at protecting her. He must’ve been at odds with himself all this time, going back and forth between the decision to tell her and the finality of not telling her. He must’ve felt guilty too. For not being honest. For keeping a secret so dark and so dangerous, it cost him his life. Even in his death, he was taking care of her—his life insurance money ensured she had the means to continue doing what she loved the most. Photography. And what did she do with his legacy? Blew it all on her drug addiction.

Jo sits straighter. Rolls her shoulders at such a sharp angle, her neck cracks.

Those girls were important to him. The least she can do is to continue his work. Starting with Grace.

Jo gets to her feet and puts her hand on Grace’s shoulder. Squeezes it gently. When Grace looks up, Jo smiles. “I think we should take photos here, around the table.” Jo drops her hand, takes her Kodak, and turns it over in her hands. Then she looks pointedly at Grace. “Why don’t you go upstairs and ask the other girls to come down. And you.” She turns to the three girls that are watching her in complete silence. “Go and sit together on one side. Right there. And let’s get started.”

An Extra

The girls, all seven of them, assemble around the table. Lula is seated in the center, with Flora and Rose to her right. A new girl is perched on the chair to Lula’s left, and the other girls stand behind those seated.

Jo adjusts her camera, looks quickly through the lens. The lens is blurry, as if she left a fingerprint on the glass. The girls don’t fit into the frame.

“Please get closer to each other,” Jo says. Her voice grinds against her vocal cords like pebbles in the river. “We need to make sure I can capture all of you.” She points at the girls in the back. “Please step forward and as close as possible to Lula. She’s your anchor.” As instructed, the girls carefully inch to the center. “And she promised not to bite.” Jo smiles.

The girls giggle, but they step closer to each other and to Lula, who sits ramrod straight in the chair, eyes narrowed at Jo.

Amid all the commotion, Ada slips into the room. “How long is it going to take?” she says, eyeing the girls. “My dolls need to be ready for the gentlemen in forty minutes.”

Jo wrinkles her nose. True gentlemen don’t come to establishments like this. “Shouldn’t take too long.” She can snap a picture or two within minutes as long as Grace finds the box in Sally’s room, but she isn’t going to rush. Grace and Jo agreed that Jo would stall as long as she reasonably can, giving Grace enough time to search for the money. Grace said she’d start with the wardrobe, where she thought Sally had a secret compartment.

Lips molded into a taut line, Ada saunters to the hearth, where she stands, watching Jo and the girls. She’s fully dressed for the night—a bright-red dress buttoned all the way up to the chin. Her eyes are lined with dark kohl, and two maroon spots on her cheeks bloom in full force. But she still looks exhausted and strung out. Hank, the giant, is nowhere in sight. Something in his absence is concerning, and Jo’s spine tingles with worry.

Jo lifts the camera to her face. The angle finder is so small, it’s almost useless. Jo takes a soft cloth out of her camera bag and cleans the lens quickly, removing a greasy smudge. But when she lifts her camera again, the lens is still blurry. Jo turns the camera over and checks the glass again. It’s as clear as it could be. Slowly, Jo adjusts the shutters. She’ll try to work with what she has. She looks through the lens again. The blurriness is gone, and now there’s a white mist seeping from the far corner of the room. Jo’s head snaps up.

Lula inquires, “You all right?”

“Can you see us?” Rose’s timid voice floats through the air.

Jo nods and points her camera at the girls. There is no mist. The lens is clear. The focus is sharp. Even the angle finder is working right. “Try not to move. Look right here,” Jo says and taps at her camera lens with a fingernail. “All right, let’s do a test picture first.”

“It’s an odd camera,” Ada says. “Small. Our photographers usually bring a big one. With a stand.”

“It’s a folding camera,” Jo says. “The prints will be postcard size.”

“Postcards? Are we supposed to mail them?” one of the girls asks.

“Will we see our faces?” Rose says.

“Hardly, I reckon,” Lula pitches in. “Postcards are small.”

Jo sighs. “Of course you’ll be able to see your faces.” She lowers her camera again. “I’ll make sure the image is sharp.” Her arms are getting tired from all the up-and-down movements. And where is Grace? She must be done with the wardrobe already. Where is she searching now? “Ira wanted it done that way. I didn’t ask him why.” She looks over at Ada, whose eyes are permanently fixed on her. A strong aura of suspicion radiates from the woman. Jo holds her gaze, even though her stomach contracts. Where is Hank? She lifts her camera and looks through the lens. “Don’t move. Look at me.”

The girls freeze, their faces hard. Some of them stop breathing.