Page 54 of If Looks Could Kill

I blinked in the morning light. I am waking up in Mike’s bedroom, my brain reminded me.

He’s not here, my Salvation Army brain reminded me. And Pearl is still gone.

A bedside table sat piled high with books and notebooks, and an armoire missing its door showed Mike’s stacked, folded sweaters and his shirts hanging on pegs. A toy train sat upon a shelf above the table, next to a windup clock. The room smelled of cloves. It smelled like Mike.

I’d slept in my clothes, which is never a comfortable feeling, but it had made me feel safer last night. More ready, I supposed, if somehow, improbably, word had reached me about Pearl.

No sooner had I sat up and rubbed the grit from my eyes than a knock sounded, and a rosy-cheeked woman bustled in with a tray the size of Ireland and enough breakfast for an army.

“Good morning, Miss Tabitha,” Mike’s aunt Mag practically sang in that glorious Celtic accent. “I hope you’ve had a good rest?”

Aunt Mag had curly brown hair pinned atop her head with tendrils spiraling down. She wore a cream lace blouse, a collar kept in place by a cameo pin, and a long brown skirt.

“Good morning, Mrs. O’Keeffe,” I managed to say. “I slept well. Just how late is it?”

“After the night you had,” she said, “it’s no wonder you needed a good lie-in.”

The details of the night rolled over me like waves at the seashore.

Pearl, a Medusa. Pearl, missing. Pearl, a Medusa, for the love of heaven .

A Medusa. Here in New York, in 1888. Freyda, captured.

Abused. Assaulted. Cora and Freyda, sprung out of a pimp’s crib.

Mother Rosie, waving her gun. Fleeing there.

Fleeing Miss Stella and her mausoleum of a home.

Leaving the Salvation Army. Being held at knifepoint by Buster.

My night with Mike.

And once again: Pearl.

“Are you all right, dearie?”

I blinked and saw Mike’s aunt watching me with concern.

“I’m fine,” I told her. “Still waking up.”

She settled on the edge of the bed and watched me expectantly. Dimly, I remembered meeting Mike’s uncle and aunt last night, but we’d been dead on our feet. Mike did his explaining privately, where I couldn’t hear. I was relieved. But what did they think I was to him?

Sizzling aromas wafted from her tray. Eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, mushrooms, toast, fried potatoes, cheese, porridge, black pudding, and coffee. Pearl and I usually split a day-old bun from Reggie’s Bakery. Aunt Lorraine believed in starting the day with bran mash.

“Eat hearty,” Aunt Mag urged me, placing the tray on my lap. “Here’s your napkin and your silverware.”

She didn’t need to tell me twice. “Will you join me,” I asked her, “with all this breakfast?”

She beamed. “Bless you, child. Eat! I had my breakfast hours ago. Mike had to get to class early, and I knew he had a test to take, so I thought a proper breakfast would do him good.”

I stopped with my mouth full of mushrooms. “Class?” I asked. “A test?”

Aunt Mag’s eyes grew wide. My ignorance was not a mark in my favor, but she was too kind to dwell on it. She helped herself to a convivial wedge of toast.

“Sure, that’s right,” she said lightly. “His mathematics course he’s taking at the draftsman’s college. Algebra.” She beamed with ready pride. “Our Mike’s a bright one, he is. Not like the loafers you see these days. He’s got ambition to make something of himself.”

I took another bite of mushroom. “What a night to be out so late, when he had a test to take.”

Aunt Mag availed herself of my unused knife to spear herself a slice of cheese. “That’s the kind of lad he is, Miss Tabitha,” she said. “Loyal. Nothing he wouldn’t do for a friend.”

Was she placing special stress on the word “friend”? Friend as in, nothing more?

I wasn’t a Catholic. Was that a problem, perhaps?

Time for a violent self-scolding. Get ahold of yourself, you goose. You’ve spent one evening and shared one kiss. You didn’t know about his classes. That kiss was probably just… circumstantial. Situationally obligatory. It’s a bit early to worry about how to raise the children.

“Are you too warm in here, lovey?” Aunt Mag hurried to the window to open it a crack. “Your cheeks are quite flushed all of a sudden.”

I attacked the beans with my spoon.

“They go best on the toast,” she supplied helpfully, taking another wedge of it for herself.

I heaped beans on the remaining piece, which was sopping with rich yellow butter.

It was delicious. Aunt Mag watched, taking dainty nibbles off one of the fried sausages.

“Now,” she said, “tell me all about you.”

“I’d love to,” I lied, “but I need to locate my friend Pearl. Do you know what time it is?”

Aunt Mag popped her fingertips into her mouth, one by one, to lick off the grease.

“You don’t want your porridge?” she asked.

I shook my head. “It looks delicious. But I’m getting full.”

She seized the ramekin and busied herself with a spoon she’d pulled from her apron pocket. “Nearly a quarter to ten.”

Oh no. The morning was half over. I set the tray aside, peeled the bedclothes off me, and swung my legs out.

“I’ve got to get going,” I told her. “Thank you so much for allowing me to stay here.”

“Any friend of Mike’s.” She paused, mid-bite. “Mike said he’d be back by noon, and he hoped you’d wait for him.” She swallowed. “He worried about you going out beforehand.”

“I’ll come back this afternoon,” I said, “and tell him what I’ve learned.”

She skewered a bite of egg with a fork, also from her apron pocket. Aunt Mag, it seemed, thought ahead. “I’ll tell him,” she said, “but can I persuade you to reconsider? I have a mince pie in the oven and a pork roast and potatoes for dinner.”

“I’ll be back,” I repeated. “Please tell Mike not to worry. I’ll return in a couple of hours.”

Aunt Mag swallowed a stewed prune and dabbed her mouth with my napkin. “Rescuing those poor girls is certainly noble, but didn’t Mike say you’ve angered some rough sorts?”

“My friend Pearl is missing, and those rough sorts are looking for her, too. I can’t stay here, much as I’d like to, enjoying your cooking—”

“Oh, go on.” She waved away the compliment that had obviously delighted her.

“—while I know she’s out there.” My voice choked. “I pray she’s out there.”

Mike’s aunt melted. “Then I’ll do the same,” she said, “and send up a little prayer, too.” She rose and gathered up the tray. “Please be careful today, Miss Tabitha,” she added. “Our Mike’s a lovely boy, and you seem to have made quite an impression on him.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I reverted to my fallback strategy for life: blurt out the uncensored truth at the worst possible time.

“I think he’s wonderful.”

“Well!” Her eyes sparkled. “Does he know that?”

I’d finished lacing up one boot and switched to the other one. “If he doesn’t,” I told her, “then he’s not the bright lad you think he is.”

Her musical laughter bounced off the ceiling. “You be sure and come back, young lady.”