“Let’s stay dry!” he exclaimed, taking her hand to pull her into the building.

“Feels good,” she said, resisting, and he let go. “Been so hot.”

His limbs felt suspended in honey. He’d continued to eat the lozenges himself, so as not to make the girl suspicious whenever he offered her another. She tipped her head back so the rain ran down her face.

“It’s just a sun shower,” she said. “I got to get back, my ma told me to watch my brother.”

Without another word, she turned and broke into a run.

He’d been expecting this: he lunged, grabbed her arm, and dragged her into the warehouse. She screamed, not in fear but fury, and elbowed him in the chest. He grunted but didn’t let go, clamping his hand across her mouth. It was as though he’d tried to silence a rabid dog. She bit down on his fingers, kicking him as she twisted away, screaming.

“Brigid! Brigid!”

His knees buckled as she landed another kick; her fist connected with his eye as he fell, catching himself against the doorframe. He clutched his face and dazedly watched her run off. When he heard the answering chorus of girls’ alarmed voices, he turned and lurched through the warehouse, searching for the door. It was locked, but he kicked it open, pushed his way through the rotted boards, and fled.

He stumbled until he reached a railroad track, scrambled down the embankment, and followed it until he saw a break in the fence. Back on the street, he retraced his path to a streetcar stop and hopped the first car he saw. He rode it to within a few blocks of where he lived and staggered home, locked the door behind him, and raced upstairs to pack.

Chapter 74

Chapter 74

BY EARLY AFTERNOON Francis felt like he was playing a bit part in one of those one-reelers popularized by the temperance movement—The Drunkard’s Curse, Satan in a Bottle. He’d never seen so many drunks, men and women both. This is what you get for giving away free tickets for the kiddies, he thought. That much more money to spend on beer.

And of course the weather only made it worse. Something about the threat of a storm made people act like their days were numbered. Couples stumbled from the Woodland Cabaret, the women’s skirts rumpled and the men’s collars askew. A man held a woman’s hat as she vomited near the Tickler’s exit. Outside Hell Gate, a girl comforted her sobbing friend.

“He told me—he told me it couldn’t possibly be him…”

Because of course they’d opened the dark ride again. How could they not, on what would almost certainly be Riverview’s biggest day of the season?