She shoved the photos back into the wallet, began to thrust it into the jacket pocket, and stopped. She opened the wallet, fumbling for the photos on top, the photos that had first fallen out, of Maria Walewski, took one, and stuffed it in her pocket.

She peered out the front window but saw no one. She locked the door, crossed to the back of the room, to the window. At first it wouldn’t budge, but finally she got it open and climbed back outside. Thunder cracked, the Blue Streak’s cars shrieked overhead as she ran past the coaster, past a man who cranked a hurdy-gurdy, past a child wailing for a lost balloon. How could she have not known?

Chapter 84

Chapter 84

THE STREETCAR WAS only half full: people were pouring into Riverview, not away from it. She clutched her arms to her chest, shivering, pushed open the window beside her, and curled up on the wicker seat.

She felt like she had a live wasp in her pocket, not a photograph. Maybe it wasn’t his. Maybe he’d bought the photos at one of those places in the arcade that sold pictures of naked women.

She knew that wasn’t true. The photos belonged to Max. That was why he’d looked so crazy, that was why he’d dyed his hair black. He knew he was being hunted. He had killed Maria Walewski and Gilda Belascu; he’d killed the Gypsy girl. He’d killed her sister, Abriana, and all those others, and maybe Elsie Paroubek, too. Then he’d dressed a doll in their clothing and taken pictures of them, like…

Like Henry, she thought, dizzied, it’s like what he does with those pictures of the dead girls.

But Henry didn’t kill Maria. It was Max, it had been Max all along. She’d been in the same room with him, she’d taken the money he gave her…

She wiped her hands on her knickerbockers. When Max returned to his dressing room, he’d see the quarter was gone. He’d realize she’d been there. And when he noticed that his photos had been disturbed, he’d know that she had seen them. He’d find her and kill her, snap her neck, then hide her body inside his dressing room. By the time it was discovered, Max would be long gone.

She would have to give the photo to the police and tell them what she knew. They would question her. They would learn who she really was, not a boy but the sister of a murdered girl. She would be stripped of everything she was, everything she had made herself into.

She felt in her pocket for her shiv. There was another way, there had to be another way. What?