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Riley exhales in relief. “Will you ask him to call me, please? I won’t stop stressing until I’ve heard from him.”
“Of course.”
My heart gains a new nick when she murmurs, “And tell him that I don’t blame him for anything that happened. That I’veneverblamed him.”
My heartache for what she went through, and still has to go through, comes across in my tone. “I will. I promise.”
She murmurs a thank you before she disconnects our call.
Just as fast, Tillie pushes me toward the exit stairs of our building.
“I won’t leave Mrs. Lichard’s apartment for any reason or anyone.”
She tries her darndest to act ignorant to the fear in my voice when I remind her to brush her teeth before bed. She shouldn’t bother. She wears panic as obviously as me.
It feels like I’m walking into a tornado without a raincoat.
I’m about to get drenched, but unlike yesterday morning, my pussy isn’t facing the deluge.
37
MARA
“I’m arriving at the Chrysler building now,” I say down the line, assuming Mrs. Lichard is calling me to make sure I made it across town safely. She’s a worrywart. It is one of the things I love about her the most. That, and how madly she adores Tillie.
I smile down the camera when Mrs. Lichard twists her phone to show Tillie sitting on a knitted blanket, watchingHome and Away.
“It’s not my favorite Australian show, but it makes her happy, so I put up with the injustice.” A doorbell rings, and Mrs. Lichard’s face lights up. “That will be the roast.”
“You ordered roast for dinner?” I ask, my voice rife with suspicion.
That would cost a fortune, and Mrs. Lichard is on a pension. She can’t afford takeout.
Shepfftsme like my shock isn’t warranted. “No.” A touch of heat graces her rheumy cheeks when she admits, “I sent the ingredients to Mr. Gordon from 4A and ordered him to make us a roast for dinner.”
The redness of my cheeks is more from memories of how Mr. Gordon cornered Mrs. Lichard under mistletoe last Christmas than the unbelievable heat in the servants’ elevator I’ve just entered.
It’s super stuffy tonight, and not all the heat is from remembrance of the last time I rode this elevator. Most of it is worry.
I haven’t stopped replaying my conversation with Riley through my head on repeat since I left home. That was almost two hours ago since I had to take four different bus lines to get here.
The bus schedules were designed for nine-to-five workers, which is ridiculous considering people who work those hours generally have their own mode of transport. Adding that to the fact Darius wasn’t stationed where he usually is when I leave my building has catapulted my panic.
Something is wrong—very wrong.
I tune back into my conversation when Mrs. Lichard says, “You shouldn’t have brought so much, Mara. I won’t need to go shopping for a year.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded. Barring the bulk rice, flour, and pasta we divide from the food wholesaler one block from Wilfred’s boutique, I haven’t been grocery shopping yet. The list is on my refrigerator, waiting for the day Chef stops overcooking.
When I say that to Mrs. Lichard, shock leaps onto her face. “But… it’s all here… Months of supplies were delivered an hour ago.”
She spins her phone again, and I gasp. Her little kitchen is overrun with pantry food, condiments, and enough fresh produce to last her until next Christmas.
I’ve never seen so much food.
I stagger back when she discloses, “Your kitchen is just as brimming. Tillie thought it was Christmas when she helped metake it inside.” Since my shock can’t be dismissed, she asks, “If it wasn’t you, who was it?”
I swallow the brick in my throat before flinging my eyes to the apartment I’m approaching. “I think I know who it might have been.”