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Thirty

Sally never thought one night could destroy her life—and those of so many others. Yet one did. A night she will never forget and always regret. And it had started off simply. That’s the strange part. There were no signs that something cataclysmic was on the horizon.

It was a Tuesday, and she’d been feeling particularly lonesome after another disastrous blind date with a rat-faced creep who’d tried to paw her within minutes of meeting. “You’ve got the wrong idea, pal,” she’d said before ditching him.

But Sally hadn’t felt like going home. Her date might have had the wrong idea, but the right one was very much on Sally’s mind, leading her across the city to a basement bar beneath an intimates store.

The mannequins in the shop window, dressed in silky slips and feathered robes, were a hint of what could be found below.

Inside, Sally went straight to the bar and ordered a drink.

The bartender, the only man in the joint, obliged, making it fast and strong.

Within minutes, the stool next to her was taken by a young redhead in a blue dress who looked so much like Rita Hayworth that Sally assumed she’d walked into the wrong kind of bar.

Thrumming her fingers on the bar top, she turned to Sally and said, “I never know what to order. What are you drinking?”

“A Manhattan,” Sally said.

Rita Hayworth widened her eyes. “A Manhattan in Philadelphia? Is that even legal?”

“In this city, probably not.”

“I won’t tell. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Then she winked, making Sally understand the redhead knew exactly what kind of place she’d wandered into.

One Manhattan became two, which eventually turned into three. By the time her glass was empty, Sally had her hand on one of the redhead’s supple thighs, pushing ever so slightly up her skirt.

“Take me home with you,” Rita Hayworth said, her voice husky with lust.

Sally never took women to her apartment.

She’d learned that from her father. A world-class philanderer, he screwed around in half the hotels in the city.

Until the one time he didn’t. Sally’s mother had taken her and her sister to Cape May for the weekend.

When they got home, they found their father still asleep and a brunette drinking coffee topless in the kitchen.

“I don’t live alone,” Sally lied.

“My hotel, then.”

She grabbed Sally’s hand without waiting for an answer, leading her out of the bar, into a cab, and into her bed. Sally spent the rest of the night there, marveling at the beautiful young thing in her arms and wondering how she’d gotten so lucky.

It turned out luck had nothing to do with it.

Sally learned that two days later, when Rita Hayworth phoned her at the office asking if she could meet for a drink at her hotel.

Too excited by the prospect of another good time with the fiery redhead, Sally never stopped to wonder just how she knew where to call her.

Only when she reached the bar and found Rita in a corner booth with a man did Sally realize something else was going on.

Because it wasn’t just any man seated next to the woman she’d recently taken to bed. It was Kenneth Wentworth, her boss’s chief competitor.

“Miss Lawrence, so glad you could join us,” he said, adding with a wink, “I believe you two ladies already know each other.”

Rita refused to make eye contact as Wentworth placed a manila envelope on the table and slid it toward Sally.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Open it and see,” Wentworth said with an unctuous smirk.

Sally opened the envelope—and almost passed out.

Inside were a dozen photographs snapped from inside the closet of Rita’s hotel room, showing everything they had done that night.

The two of them kissing, undressing, tumbling into bed.

By the time she got to the picture of Rita’s face buried between her legs, Sally wondered why she hadn’t yet died from shame, anger, and fear.

“Can I go now?” Rita asked Wentworth.

He handed her an envelope filled with cash and said, “Good work, kid.”

The woman still couldn’t bring herself to look at Sally as she scurried away, whispering a rushed “I’m sorry” while she passed. Too shocked by what was in those photos, Sally barely heard it. By then, her blood ran so cold she was certain it had frozen in her veins.

“You have a choice, Miss Lawrence,” Wentworth said. “I can send copies of these photos to your mother, your sister, your employer, everyone you know. Or I can give them—and the negatives—to you to destroy. I can make these go away. In exchange for a favor.”

Sally, who’d already decided to accept the offer without knowing what it was, said, “Anything you want.”

What it turned out to be didn’t become clear until the day after Tommy Matheson’s funeral. That was when Sally learned she’d be forced to create a convincing paper trail that connected her boss to the act of sabotage that killed his son and a bunch of newly enlisted troops.

If she did it, the photos and negatives would be hers, along with more money than she ever dreamed of having.

If she refused, then the photos would be made public and she’d be implicated alongside her boss.

Sally made her choice.

When the job was done, the photos and negatives were delivered to her in a wrapped gift box. She burned them in the kitchen sink, swigging directly from a whiskey bottle as she watched the flames rise.

Now she tells Anna what she never told anyone.

Her dirty secrets. Her hidden shame. The only thing she leaves out is the crushing guilt she’s felt ever since that day, knowing that Anna—who suffered far more than she ever could—won’t care.

Nor does she mention how the reason she’s never said anything until now is because, having already ruined so many lives, Sally saw no point in destroying her own.

So she took the money, knowing it would only make her more miserable.

“I’m not going to beg you for forgiveness,” Sally says, suddenly thirsting for the dregs of whiskey that remain in her flask. “I know you won’t give it to me, and I know I don’t deserve it.”

“You’re right on both counts,” Anna says.

“But I swear to you, Anna, if I’d known Tommy’s death was part of the plan, I never would have agreed to it, no matter the cost. But he was already gone when they dragged me into it. Nothing I could have done would have stopped that.”

If looks could kill, Sally knows she’d be struck down by the one Anna gives as she says, “My father also died. You could have stopped that.”

“You’re wrong there,” Sally says. “One way or another, Ken Wentworth would have made this plan happen. The only difference is that I also would have gone to prison—and I probably would have been killed the same way your father was.”

Anna glares at her. “There’s a chance that could still happen.”

Sally nods, knowing that’s likely in her future if she doesn’t get off the train before it reaches Chicago.

What she doesn’t understand is why Anna insists on bothering with all of it.

If their roles were reversed, she wouldn’t lure Anna onto a train under false pretenses and escort her to a group of waiting feds.

That’s because Anna would already be dead.

Sally would have made sure of it.

“Now that I’ve admitted everything,” she says, “are you still going to pretend you don’t intend to kill me?”

“I told you, I’m not a killer.”

Sally finishes painting her nails. Eyes on the glistening crimson, she says, “And what about your Irish friend?”

“Seamus? He’s not one, either.”

“Please don’t tell me you actually believe that.”

“What do you mean?” Anna says, matching her in prickliness. The room suddenly feels smaller, filling quickly with mutual distrust.

“What I mean is that he clearly killed Judd. Probably offed Edith, too.”

Anna shakes her head. “Seamus would never do that.”

“You sure?” Sally says. “Think about it. He was never searched, was he? Not completely. Once Mr. Davis saw that gun, it was all over. If your pal Seamus had poison in his pocket, none of us would know.”

She watches Anna open her mouth, about to tell her she’s wrong. That of course Seamus was searched. That all of them watched it happen. But when her lips suddenly press together again, it’s clear Anna understands that Sally’s right.

“He still wouldn’t do it. Not without my approval. We came up with this plan together. We agreed not to hurt any of you.” Anna pauses, making sure Sal is paying attention to what comes next. “Even though it’s what all of you deserve.”

“That might have been the plan, but things change when you’re in the moment,” Sally says.

“Maybe the sight of all of us together made him so mad he couldn’t help himself.

Maybe he just snapped. It’s certainly possible.

Under the right circumstances, a person is capable of anything. I’m living proof.”

“Seamus is better than you,” Anna says, and Sally can’t argue with that. Most people are.

“I’m not judging him. I’ve come to terms with the fact that all of us deserve whatever is coming our way.

” Sally turns her gaze to the window and the snowbound landscape passing beyond it.

A kind of freedom she knows she’ll never experience again.

“All I’m saying is that if I were you, I’d make sure Seamus hasn’t gone rogue. ”