More writing marched across the small page in neat, parallel lines longer than normal. Not just the words of play. An actual note, the likes of which he hadn’t left since that first one.

Thank you so much for your concern, Miss De Wilde. It means the world to me. I have been under the weather—pneumonia, I fear. But I have missed our game too. I will make more of an effort to continue it. Your prayers would be appreciated. JW

She’d been right to be concerned, then. Sitting on the cold chair, she made the move in the game that she’d already had planned and then fished about in her handbag for something to write with. Flipped the note over and used her handbag, lumpy as it was, for a table.

You have my prayers.

She paused a moment, pen still hovering over the period. Habit made her say it—never had she turned down a request for prayers. But then, no one had really made such a request since Maman died.

She wouldn’t let the note be a lie. She wouldn’t.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she gripped the icy edge of the table and drew in a long breath. It shook. Eternal Father . . .

Her fingers bit harder, until she felt the many layers of paint dent under her nails.

Eternal Father. Please put your hand on Mr. Williams. Clear his lungs of any pneumonia. Touch him, Lord, and make him well. Eighteen, thirty-six, fifty-four . . .

She sucked in another breath. That wasn’t so bad.

Eighteen.

Her eyes flew open again. It wasn’t the Lord. She didn’t think so. It wasn’t that resonating voice deep within, just the memory of it. An echo.

An accusation.

She knew now who Eighteen was. And like a roulette wheel spinning, she watched numbers cartwheel through her mind. Only they weren’t just numbers. They were dates.

Breath catching again, she stood and darted off. Back to the street and down it, toward Dot’s building. Through the doors, up the stairs, to the door that had become nearly as familiar as her own. She knocked and forced her respiration to even out again.

After ten eternal seconds, the door opened, and Drake stood silhouetted against the lamplight. Smiling. As if she deserved his smile. “Margot. Dot and Red went out to see a moving picture—”

“Good.” She didn’t need her friend to hear this anyway. To blame her. Not yet. She pushed her way in and then spun a step from the door to face him. To face the truth. “It’s my fault you were shot.”

Drake closed the door slowly, silently, and turned to her without a twitch in his countenance to betray anything but pleasure to see her. “No, it’s not.”