Harry.
She checked his room, but the bed was still neatly made; there was no sign he’d returned in the night. Pearl, one room over, was fast asleep, her head buried facedown in the pillow so that only a messy swath of hair was visible.
Yesterday’s events—the argument with Jack, the futile effort to save the manuscript, the dumbwaiter’s secret contents—washed over her in a painful wave. But the few hours of sleep had brought a renewed energy, a sense that she could fix this, make it right. She must think clearly, and her first goal was to protect her children. Harry shouldn’t be punished for something that was completely out of character for him. He was only a young boy and had been through a tough year, had made stupid mistakes. She wished they’d never moved into the library, that they’d stayed upstate, where life was simpler and none of them would have fallen victim to the temptations of the big city. Temptations like a career of her own, like Amelia. Like the rare books.
Jack was nowhere to be found; he’d probably spent the night downstairs on the sofa in his office. She’d talk with him, convince him to forgive his son.
Harry would return today, and they’d have a long discussion, without anger or tears. Without blaming each other. They’d find out why he’d done it, and how. The thought of him out on the streets all night made her ill, but at least he had Red Paddy and the gang to run to, which was an odd comfort. A terrible comfort. What if the gang had forced him to steal the books for them? If Harry explained to Dr. Anderson everything he knew, and turned in the awful boys who forced him to steal, wouldn’t he be offered some leniency? Of course he would; he was only eleven years old.
It wasn’t lost on her that he’d be turning in the sons of other women, mothers whose own boys had lost their way. But her own family must come first, from now on. She didn’t have any compassion to spare.
A solid knock on the downstairs door stopped her ruminations. She placed one hand on the door to the dumbwaiter, checking that it was firmly shut, before making her way down the narrow stairs. Mr. Gaillard stood in the hallway, two men in uniform lurking just behind him. She looked around for Harry, but the boy wasn’t there.
“Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Lyons, may we speak with you a moment? Would you please come with me?”
Jack must’ve said something, mentioned Harry’s crime. Turned him in as vengeance for his terrible misdeed. She imagined stepping into Mr. Gaillard’s office, seeing Jack sitting in one chair, tiny Harry in the other. Having to choose.
What would an innocent party say to this? She wasn’t sure how to respond. “It’s awfully early. Is something wrong?”
“We need to talk.”
Every fiber of her being resisted being led away. “I can’t leave the apartment just now.”
“An officer will stay with the children.”
Children. He didn’t know that Harry had run off. Which meant Harry was safe, for now.
She followed him and the other officer out into the hallway, where two librarians walked by, staring at her before quickly averting their eyes. Around the corner Mr. Benson, the janitor, stood frozen with his mop and bucket as they passed. What was going on?
Mr. Gaillard’s office was vacant, thank goodness. He asked the police officer to wait outside and gestured for her to take a seat.
“Mrs. Lyons, I’m afraid I have some terrible news.”
Harry. They must have found him. What if he’d been attacked in the middle of the night? She imagined his limp body lying under one of the lions, where he’d taken refuge in the dark, too scared to come home. He’d been so ill—to have made it through typhoid fever for this? She’d kill Jack for this, she would.
“What?” She needed Mr. Gaillard to tell her quickly, get it over with. Yet another part of her wanted to go back to the apartment, back to the chair, back before she knew her life was going to tilt precariously into danger.
“It’s your husband.”
“Jack? What about him?”
“The coal passer found him in the boiler room not long ago.” Somewhere, a clock chimed. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid he’s hanged himself. From the pipes.”
They must have it wrong. Jack would never do such a thing. She said as much, her voice trembling.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t believe you. I must see him.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He was wrong, and she’d prove it to him. “Show me.”
Mr. Gaillard held her arm as they walked down to the basement, as the workers scurried out of sight. Now she knew the reason for their discomfort. News must have spread fast. Still, they were wrong.
A body lay on the floor, the face covered by a small cloth. She knelt down beside it as Mr. Gaillard lifted the cloth. Bloodshot eyes stared up at the ceiling; a tongue, thick and swollen, protruded from the open mouth. None of these strangled features were familiar, not really Jack’s at all. The stuck-out ears were his, though. She pushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “What have you done?” she whispered, the words coming out as barely a hiss of breath. “What have you done?”
The rope he’d used was still looped around his neck, the frayed end curled beside his head like a serpent. His cheek was cold.
This Jack wasn’t her Jack, who’d walk into the room at any moment and laugh at all this silliness. The husband who’d cried when they’d exchanged vows. No, this was the body of a stranger.
Mr. Gaillard took her by the arms and led her away, out of the room and into Jack’s office, where they’d had that terrible argument. Had that been only a day ago? It seemed like years. She let him place her in a chair.
All because of a lost manuscript. She wanted to fix things, make it all fine again. The book could be rewritten; she’d type as he dictated. They’d find Harry and bring him home.
But it was too late.
“Mrs. Lyons, I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said. “I can’t imagine the pain you must be in, but I must ask you about a note we found near the body.”
She looked up. “A note?”
He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “It appears to be a confession. For the thefts.”
“No. Jack didn’t do that.”
He handed it to her, and she read it, her hands shaking.
I’m sorry for the trouble I caused the library. The fault is mine, as is the shame. Please tell my family I love them.—Jack Lyons
Mr. Gaillard cleared his throat. “I must ask you, and I’m sorry but I must. Do you know anything about this?”
“I do not.” The lie was delivered smoothly, easily, over the turbulence of all these new emotions. Loss, disbelief, shock. They came to her in waves, one after the other. Pearl. How could she tell Pearl her father had killed himself? And Harry. What a horrible burden for any young child to have. How could Jack have inflicted this on them all?
To save his son. He’d done it for Harry’s sake.
The door opened, and the other officer came in, a groggy Pearl by his side. Laura rushed to the girl and held her as Mr. Gaillard and the officer exchanged whispers.
Mr. Gaillard offered a sympathetic look. “Mrs. Lyons, I’m afraid we have to search your apartment again. You and your daughter can wait in here. I’m told your son isn’t present.”
“He’s with my parents.” Another lie.
She sat with Pearl on her lap, holding her head to her shoulder, singing softly under her breath. Harry was somewhere out there in the alleys and streets, scared and alone. Jack had left her behind, the loss of his manuscript, the unfaithfulness of his wife, and the shameful acts of his son too much to bear.
This building had crushed their family, just as if it had crumbled to the ground right on top of them all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
New York City, 1993
What do you mean, Valentina’s missing? What happened?”
Sadie tried to make sense of what LuAnn was telling her. She was still half-asleep and caught up in that terrible dream.