Three

She needed to run.

She needed to get out of there as fast as possible, before someone came looking for her, or him, or just found them there, him with a knife sticking out of his neck and her…

Vivian stared at her hands, covered with his blood.

Even if she ran, even if she made it out the front door, someone would see her hurrying down the street. She had already talked to the servants—had left her purse and her deliveries upstairs—they knew her name and where she worked.

She couldn't run.

Vivian's heart beat so frantically she thought she would choke on it. And Mr. Buchanan's wasn't beating at all. She could see his face, pale above his soaked collar, his lips blue where they weren't streaked with blood.

She could see that he wasn't breathing, not anymore.

She didn't know a thing about him, didn't even know if he was a good man. But he had cared whether she was out in the cold in a skimpy coat, and he had a daughter she might be a little bit like. He had talked to her like she was a real person, and then he had bled to death alone on the floor.

She couldn't leave him like that. She couldn't run.

Vivian took one slow step backward, then another, until she was at the door. She had left it open when she came in. As if from miles away, she could hear a murmur of voices, servants returning to their work downstairs.

Vivian took a deep breath. She screamed for help as loud as she could.

"And you claim you just found him there?"

Vivian hunched her shoulders, as if that could shield her against the disbelief in the officer's voice. "I don't claim I just found him there, I did find him there. Sir," she added, not wanting to make things worse.

She was sitting on the house's grand staircase, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her hands had left bloody prints on the faded cotton, and she kept trying to move them, trying to shift the stains out of her sight, but it didn't seem to work. If she glanced up, toward the floor where Mr. Buchanan's body was still waiting for the coroner to arrive, the carved wood of the banister and its supports cut across her view like the bars of a cage.

"Tell me again."

She shivered. "I was looking for a piece of paper, and no one answered when I knocked. So I went in and…"

She hadn't expected good things when she yelled for help. But it had been so much worse than she had imagined. Mrs. Buchanan, just arrived home, had screamed when she saw Vivian smeared in blood. The servants had grabbed her and pinned her against the wall. Everyone was yelling for the police, the doctor, some kind of help.

Then the officers had arrived, faster than she'd ever seen police turn up to help folks where she lived. They had asked the housekeeper for a blanket, sat her on the steps, asked for a statement. For a few brief moments, she had thought they would listen. She waited for someone to suggest she wash her hands, to ask if she was all right.

But the questions kept coming. Who she was. When she had arrived. Why she had waited over an hour for a client who was clearly not coming, without going to find the housekeeper or anyone else. Why she had gone to Mr. Buchanan's study at all.

Why her hands were covered in his blood.

And when they got to the end of their questions, they started at the beginning again, pouncing on her stumbling words, the moments she didn't remember clearly, the things she couldn't explain in the first place.

"And who was this man you say he was meeting with?"

Vivian clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Or maybe it was to stop herself from screaming. "I don't know." She closed her eyes for a moment, but all she saw behind her eyelids was the look of shock on Mr. Buchanan's face, the blood that had trickled across his lips while he was dying. She opened her eyes quickly. "The maid said someone was waiting for him. She didn't say a name, and Mr. Buchanan didn't ask, just said bye to me and went out after her."

There were footsteps on the parquet floor of the hall below them, then thumping up the stairs. The two officers stepped to the side as a man in a dapper suit, carrying a doctor's bag, nodded to them and continued toward Buchanan's study. He was followed by two young officers carrying a stretcher between them. The coroner didn't spare Vivian a glance, but the two with the stretcher gave her a quick look over. One of them couldn't hide his flinch as he caught sight of her bloody hands.

They were both young—Vivian thought the one who had flinched might even be younger than she was. She wondered if they liked to go out dancing or drinking on their nights off. She wondered how the flincher would feel when he saw Mr. Buchanan's body lying on the floor.

"Let me see her!"

There was someone else on the steps, a red-haired man in an elegant suit that was too rumpled, as though he'd been out all night in it and was finally coming home. He had his hat in his hand and he was glaring at another junior officer who was blocking his way.

"I'm very sorry, Mister…"

"Rokesby. Cornelius Rokesby," the young man said impatiently. "My mother is Mr. Buchanan's wife. Where is she?"

"Mrs. Buchanan isn't upstairs—"

"Then let me see her. Immediately. And tell me what happened to my stepfather."

"Sir, she isn't—"

"Dawes." The older officer had turned away from Vivian and was looking over the rail. "Go ahead and take him up. Let him talk to the coroner."

The junior officer barely had time to reply before Cornelius Rokesby was pushing his way up the stairs. Vivian shrank against the banister, her head turned down, her hands curled into the edges of the blanket once more. She didn't want Buchanan's stepson seeing her covered in his blood. But he didn't even glance at her as he went past.

"So, you claim the maid didn't say what the business matter was?" the younger officer asked, his voice snapping her back to the present.

Rokesby was gone, and they were looming over her again. "Why would she need to tell Mr. Buchanan his own business? Why would she even know?"

"We're the ones asking the questions, young lady," the older officer said. His voice was soft, softer than the bluster and brass of his partner. "How many times had you delivered dresses here before?"

"Never, sir," Vivian said, shifting her hands again. "Mrs. Buchanan's a new customer."

"And had you ever met Mr. Buchanan before?"

"No, sir."

"And yet he sat with you for some time, by your account. Shared a cup of coffee with you, even. Strange thing to do with a delivery girl he didn't know." The older officer's voice grew even quieter. "Tell me, do you often socialize with the husbands of your clients? Husbands you claim you never met before?"

"I don't claim it, sir. I never had met him before." Vivian clenched her fists hard enough that her nails bit into her palms, the discomfort reminding her to keep her temper in check. "Like I said, he was sitting in the room when I arrived, and he only spoke to me for a few minutes, including that cup of coffee. He was polite, nothing more. And I was polite, too, because that's how I am with customers. And their families. And everyone else." She met his eyes. "Sir."

"It pays to be polite, doesn't it?" The snide voice of the younger officer cut through the air, and Vivian turned in time to see his knowing smirk. "Girls like you don't make much money, isn't that so? Gotta make friends where you can if you need a little extra. And from what we heard, your conversation started out so very friendly."

Vivian felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach. "You heard from that redhead, you mean? That girl Lena?"

Something flickered between the two officers as they exchanged a glance. "Just answer the question," the older one said, sounding annoyed.

"It wasn't a question, it was a statement," Vivian snapped, knowing it was unwise. She wanted to jump up and shake them, to make a wild dash for the door. She wanted to lie down and sleep for a week, to pretend it had all been a dream. "That maid was in the room for all of thirty seconds, and I barely even opened my mouth until after she had walked out." She thought about mentioning that Lena had been more than happy to giggle and smile at Mr. Buchanan herself. But she wouldn't talk trash about someone she didn't know, not when it could get another girl in trouble. Not even if the other girl had done it to her first. "Like I said, he was polite, and I was polite, and then he left. That was it."

The two officers exchanged another glance. "All right, stand up." The younger one nudged her with his toe, and Vivian shot to her feet, mouth half-open to tell him not to touch her.

But before she could say anything, the older one added, "You're coming to the station with us."

The words echoed in Vivian's head. She wasn't surprised. But they had kept her waiting there so long, without saying anything about taking her away, that she had started to hope they would let her leave after all the questions were done. That hope vanished like a missed step that sent her careening down a staircase in the dark. "I'm under arrest?"

"What kind of dumb question is that?" the younger officer demanded. "Sitting there, covered with the dead guy's blood? Of course you're under arrest."

"But I didn't do anything. I called for help when I found him. Why would I do that if I was—"

"You were the last one to see him alive."

"But I wasn't. The fella he was meeting with—"

"We're not a jury, sweetheart," the older one interrupted coldly. Any protest that Vivian might have made got stuck in her throat, the word jury echoing through her head. "So you can save your begging for someone who cares. Now, you gonna be a good girl and come with us without arguing, or are we slapping cuffs on you and dragging you to the car?"

Vivian's breath was coming in such quick bursts that she felt dizzy. "Tell you what, sir," she said, knowing that she didn't have any leverage in that moment and taking the chance anyway, because she didn't have anything to lose either. When poor girls went to jail, they didn't usually come back out. "Tell you what. We all know I could make a big stink leaving this place. I could make you haul me out hollering and screaming and getting all kinds of attention from the neighbors that I'm pretty sure Mrs. Buchanan doesn't want. Or…" She took a deep breath. "Or you let me make one phone call, and then I come along quiet as you like."

"Listen here—" the younger officer began, but his partner cut him off.

"And who do you plan to call?" he asked. There was a hint of a smile in his voice, like an indulgent parent watching a child about to throw a tantrum and deciding to be amused instead of angry.

Vivian lifted her chin and met his eyes, hoping he couldn't tell how nervous she was. "The commissioner's nephew."

"Our commissioner?" The younger one scoffed. "Nice try, girl. But he doesn't have a nephew."

But his partner cut him off once more. "You know Mr. Green, then?" he asked softly.

Vivian wondered if there would be permanent marks on her palms from where her nails had been pressed into them so long. "Yeah. I do."

The younger guy was frowning, but he didn't say anything as the older cop gave her a considering look. At last, he tipped his head toward the downstairs. "Telephone's in the hall. I make the call so I know you're not trying to pull one over on me. And then you can have your say. For two minutes."

Vivian gave a short, sharp nod. "That'll do."

He glanced at his partner. "Don't take your eyes off her, Sully."

The younger one had been staring back and forth between them as he tried to make sense of the conversation. But he nodded anyway. "Sure thing, boss."

It seemed even loudmouth young cops knew when to ask questions and when to shut up. Vivian tried to keep her head up as she walked down the steps between them, imagining that she was someone important—a movie star, maybe, or one of the socialites that was always in the gossip columns—and that they were just her bodyguards or escorts. She wondered how many servants were watching and what they thought of her. She wondered if they could tell how scared she was.

The Buchanans had a telephone in their front hall, in pride of place next to an overflowing urn of bloodred roses even though it was only March. Vivian took one look at the color and had to swallow down her nausea.

The older cop lifted the receiver and waited to connect. "What's the number?" he asked her impatiently.

Vivian swallowed. "Circle two-four-four-one."

Another pause after he gave the number. "Leo Green?" The cop let out a short breath of surprise. "Well, I'll be damned. It is you. Got a girl here who wants to speak to you."

Vivian's fingers felt cold and clumsy as she took the receiver. "Hey, pal," she whispered.

"Vivian?" Leo's voice crackled with concern, even across the telephone wires. "Sweetheart, what's going on? Who was that fella?"

"A cop," she whispered, hating the way her voice was trembling. The back of her eyes felt hot and prickly, and she took a deep breath, trying to hold herself together. "I'm in a real jam, Leo. I'm under arrest, and I don't know what to do."

"It's all right, Viv," he said immediately. "We'll fix it, whatever happened. If they're taking you in, I'll meet you at the station and get it all sorted out. Just don't tell them anything else until I get there, okay?"

"Okay."

"What're they arresting you for?" he asked, almost as an afterthought.

Vivian clutched the telephone with both hands, looking up to meet the eyes of the older officer, who was watching her impassively, with just that bare hint of amusement still showing. "Murder," she whispered into the receiver. "They're arresting me for murder."

The silence on the other end was so absolute that Vivian was afraid they'd been disconnected.

"Okay," Leo said at last. "Okay. You just sit tight, okay? And keep your mouth shut if you can do it without getting smacked around. It'll be a little while before I get there."

"Why?" Vivian asked, her voice shaking again. For a wild moment, she wondered if he was going to leave her on her own after all.

"Gotta track down some help. Put the cop back on, sweetheart. I need to know where they're taking you."