A stroke of luck, giving me reason to press on. “In that case, I’d…really appreciate your insight.”

“About?”

“I guess, if there’s something unseemly I should be aware of, with his work. Or his character. Anything about him really.”

Another quiet spell. Though now I envision Arie pondering, in spite of his puzzlement. “The man’s pretty eccentric but resourceful. An inventor,” he says and tacks on, “back in civilian life, if I remember right.”

An inventor? Interesting.

“Why do you ask?”

I have to scrounge for an answer, the topic being secondary. Wishing I could simply listen to Arie speak, I recall how his voice and stories would lull me through the gloom of sleepless nights.

“The fellow approached me tonight after the show. It made me jumpy at first, to be frank, what with him following me home. But then we started talking, and he mentioned his admiration of Houdini.” Arie would obviously recognize the pertinence. “He also knew quite a lot about my show partner—the challenges we’ve been having, I mean. Not that you need to hear any of that.”

Gracious, listen to me spouting off. I ought to get to the point.

“Look,” Arie cuts in, “that’s all I can tell you. The rest is none of my concern. Not anymore.” The shift in his voice startles me, the ire in it.

Heavens to Betsy, he thinks I want courtship advice. I could laugh over the misunderstanding, almost. “Please. Arie, if you’ll just listen.”

“Goodbye, Fenna.” The words carry such finality that I fail to reply. Then the line goes dead.

A jolt of panic shoots through me. Mortified, I reach for the base of the phone. I need to summon the operator, to call again, to explain—

For what?

It’s over.

He’s gone.

Once more, reality closes in, a merciless fist. Tears at last break free and roll hot down my face. From the portrait on the wall, the figure isn’t just peering but gloating.

It was a mistake to go backward. Moving forward is the way I’ve survived, eluding traps of all kinds, charging toward the unknown.

In light of this truth, I recall my options for the road ahead.

And I see that, really, there’s no choice to make.

Chapter 7

“Lady, ya gettin’ out or not?” The cabbie addresses me from the driver’s seat without looking over his shoulder. He reeks of pickles and pipe tobacco and wears a flat cap low over his pockmarked face.

The prospect of a return ride with this man is actually more daunting than my impending mission. I hand off change from my pocketbook, and in my hastily donned wraparound dress, having skipped the bath altogether, I step out onto the sidewalk. Compared to the gals funneling past me into the Tin Kettle, dolled up with their sweetheart necklines and hair in perfect victory rolls, I resemble a matted stray.