Francis shoved blindly past him down the hill. All he could see was how Gina’s face would look when he told her that her child was dead.

Chapter 95

Chapter 95

SHE DIDN’T STOP running until she reached the dark copse of trees. Behind her, Hell Gate’s recorded moans and screams faded into the sound of wind in the leaves. At the edge of the trees she stopped to catch her breath, suddenly mindful of where and what she was: a girl entering the woods, alone.

She held as still as she could. She could hear crickets and katydids, a nightjar buzzing in the low grass. The wind caught her white sailor collar so it flapped in her face. She slapped it down before it could catch the eye of anyone who might be looking in her direction and turned her as head slowly as she could, searching for the glow of a cigarette.

She saw him from the corner of her eyes a fraction of a second before he saw her. She knew the instant he did. Her gaze locked with his, she saw the red tip of his cigarette as he raised his head, so that his hat brim revealed his face.

“Why, hello,” he said in a pleasant tone. “What are you doing here?”

Terror flooded her: she’d been recognized. But then he took a cautious step in her direction, and she realized no, he was afraid he’d spook her if he moved too fast. She cleared her throat—she had to make her voice sound different, higher.

“Hello.” She stared at a glowworm crawling in the grass. What if he recognized her voice?

“Are you lost?” He tossed his cigarette, lit another. In the flare of the match his face was a skeleton’s. “Do you need to find your parents? I can take you back to the midway.”

His tone was gentle but also indifferent, as though he’d just as soon leave her alone. Her terror eased. What if she’d been mistaken? What if he just happened to have those doll photographs, for some reason she couldn’t imagine? What if it was only an ordinary doll, what if the dresses just happened to resemble Maria Walewski’s, and her sister’s?

He shook the match and dropped it, took a drag from his cigarette, slipped his hand into a pocket, and withdrew a small tin. She heard the soft snap as he opened it. In the gloom, she saw him put something in his mouth, begin to close the box, then look up, remembering she was there.

“I’m sorry—would you like a lemon drop? They’re very good.”

She stiffened and almost said no—what, did he think she was an idiot?—but caught herself and nodded. “Yes, thank you very much.”