Eight

Vivian didn't know how long she stood there after Honor left. It didn't make sense. None of it made sense.

Whatever history there was between them—and there was plenty—Honor had never hesitated to help her before. Hell, she had volunteered for it, even when it was downright illegal. And she had to know what a thing like a murder charge would mean to a girl like Vivian. There was no way she would let that happen.

Can't,she had said. Not won't. Vivian clung to that word, desperate for it to mean something. Honor never said anything without a reason. So what was the reason this time? Who was she afraid to cross?

It didn't matter, not now. Maybe she'd find out later. But if Honor wouldn't help her, all right then. She would help herself. She'd been doing that her whole life. She'd do it now, too.

And she wasn't getting any closer to answers standing in a cold cellar. Vivian took a deep breath, checked the pin in her hair and the cinch of her garters, and made her way upstairs for her shift.

She scanned the dance floor when she arrived. A few regulars, plenty of strangers. No one yet whose help she wanted to seek out. That was all right. There was time. Vivian made her way to the bar to scope out the patrons there and get her marching orders for the night.

Danny Chin was the Nightingale's head bartender and, unknown to most of its patrons, Honor's second-in-command. Right now, he was watching her as she stepped up to the bar. Once upon a time, he had been the dance hall's biggest flirt as well, infamous for the killer smiles and soulful eyes that could make women of any age blush and stammer. These days, though, he saved his most decadent smiles for the woman waiting for him on Spring Street, in the cozy, cluttered rooms they shared above his parents' restaurant.

Danny had married that fall. And his new wife was Vivian's older sister, Florence, now expecting their first child.

The thought of her sister made Vivian's throat grow tight. How the hell was she going to tell Florence what had happened? Did she even want to? Florence had always been the worrier between them, feet firmly planted on the pavement of New York's ugliest streets while Vivian dreamed of freedom, one dance at a time. Now that Florence was happy, could Vivian bear to take that away from her?

Vivian bit the inside of her cheek. Of course she had to tell her sister, there was no way around that. But she'd wait until she had good news to share, something that would show Florence she didn't need to worry.

There had to be something like that, she told herself firmly. There had to be, and she'd find it.

It took Vivian, lost in her thoughts, a moment to realize Danny had been speaking to her, his quiet voice nearly lost in the bright rhythm of the music.

"What?" Vivian asked, stepping toward the bar.

"I said, are you all right?" Danny repeated, frowning as he looked her over. "I can't remember the last time you came in late, and Bea didn't know where you were. We were worried."

Vivian glanced up at the bandstand, where Beatrice Henry was singing, and winced. Of course they had been worried—she had been so caught off guard by the commissioner's visit that she hadn't even remembered Bea would be waiting for her.

Beatrice Bluebird, she was called these days. She had become one of the main draws at the Nightingale ever since she moved up from waitress to chanteuse. But she and Vivian still walked to work together most nights; cabs were expensive. And there was safety in numbers, even when those numbers were just two, if you had to navigate the dark streets and alleys of Manhattan.

The thought made Vivian shiver. Daytime had proved plenty dangerous for her. Though maybe if she hadn't been alone, it would have been different.

"Viv?"

The concern in Danny's voice called her back to the present moment. Vivian managed to find a smile somewhere, though it took some effort. "I was talking to Honor," she said by way of explanation as she lifted the tray he had set out for her. But she couldn't entirely hide the tension that knotted her shoulders and stomach, and the glasses trembled against each other before she steadied them. He'd find out, eventually. But if she told him what had happened, he'd tell Florence. And her sister deserved to hear it from her. "You never need to worry about me, Danny-boy, you know that."

The look he gave her was frankly skeptical. "Did you and Leo have a falling-out?"

"'Course not," Vivian said, too quickly. There were people who worked at the Nightingale who might have suspected her history with Honor, but Danny was one of the few who knew. "Not that kind of talk. All business. Where's this one going?"

He looked like he wanted to say more, but it was a busy night, and he couldn't afford to keep his customers calling for their drinks. He tipped his head in the direction she needed to go. "Across from the bandstand. Crowd of fellas in the black suits. They look like they could shake up some trouble if they wanted, so let's not keep 'em waiting any longer than we have to." He caught her arm. "We're not done. You'll level with me later, yeah?"

Vivian gave him a wide smile, as fake as it was dazzling. Danny could probably tell the difference, but the customers who swarmed the Nightingale never could. They came for the party. They didn't want reality. "Absolutely, boss."

"Be careful, Viv," he murmured as she turned away. "Whatever it is, be careful."

It was too late for that. Vivian didn't answer as she threaded her way around the edge of the dance floor.

The young men who crowded the table where Danny had sent her were a familiar sight. She didn't recognize a single one of them individually, but they were the sort who always found their way to the Nightingale. Everything about them—the tailoring of their suits, the scent of hair pomade, the confident smiles and loud laughter—shouted money. If they had been just a little older, it would have whispered. But boys their ages hadn't yet learned about whispering. Vivian shared her smiles with them, brushing aside flirtatious glances and suggestions that she join them for a drink. But they were polite enough. Either they had been to the Nightingale before and learned that Honor Huxley expected a certain level of respect for her staff, or they were good kids in spite of their money. One of them even slipped Vivian a dollar and a wink when she handed over their gin cocktails.

"Bring us another, will you, baby? Not gin, something with whiskey this time," he said with a smile that could have been splashed across a screen at the Paramount. "We've got a pal coming who can't stand gin, and he's going to need some cheering up after the day he's had."

"Sure thing, mister," Vivian said, tucking the dollar into her palm and giving one of her smiles just to him. The extra cash would go into the tip jar and be shared out at the end of the night. "You're a sweet fella to look out for your friend."

"How sweet?" he asked, grinning and leaning forward before one of his friends pounded him in the shoulder to get his attention.

"So what did Corny tell you about his stepdad?" the friend asked. "What happened?"

Vivian slipped away while they were distracted. She didn't want to deal with Danny's worried looks again, so she headed to the other end of the bar.

She spotted Leo on the dance floor as she waited for her order. Seeing him there made her heartbeat slow for the first time since Honor had walked away. Leo would help her out, and between them, they could unearth a whole mess of secrets. Vivian dodged around a man in a blue suit who seemed to want to stand right in her way, the single drink balanced on her tray as she made her way back to the table. The band was just sliding through the intro of an Argentine tango, and the music sent a shiver up Vivian's spine as she stood aside to let an eager-looking couple go past.

Leo had just finished a dance with a cheerful brunette; as she went spinning away in the arms of a new partner, he paused at the edge of the dance floor, his eyes locked on Vivian. One of their first dances together had been a tango. She had been worried that he was the sort of fella who used a dance as an excuse to get handsy. Instead, she had discovered that he loved it as much as she did, that moving across the floor in his arms barely required thinking.

She wanted to be on that dance floor again, not thinking about anything but her partner and the music. But that would have to wait. She turned back in the direction of the table full of young men.

Only to stop before she could move a step, nearly losing her grip on her tray before she caught herself. Their missing friend had joined them, somber and handsome in his own black suit, his red curls standing out in the crowd.

The Corny they had been talking about was none other than Cornelius Rokesby, Buchanan's stepson.

Vivian took a quick sideways step, putting a group of chattering men and women between her and Rokesby, turning away quickly so he wouldn't see her face. She didn't know if he would recognize her. He wouldn't. He couldn't. They had crossed paths so briefly that morning. He'd barely seen her leaving with the police, and as far as he knew, that's where she still was. There was no reason he'd expect to run into her at a place like the Nightingale.

But she didn't want to take that chance.

"Ellie!" she hissed at another waitress heading toward the bar. Shoving her tray into Ellie's hands, she whispered quick directions as she took Ellie's own empty tray.

"What's wrong?" Ellie asked, frowning in confusion. "You look all balled up."

"Nothing. Nothing at all. They tip real good."

"Then what—"

Vivian didn't wait for Ellie to finish. She didn't think about Leo watching her from across the room or whether Danny would notice her ducking out on her already interrupted shift. She had to get out of there.

She made a beeline for the back hall, dropping her tray onto the end of the bar without letting anyone catch her eye. Out in the hall, the air was cooler than the sweaty heat of the dance floor, but the music still flowed out in a dark, sultry tumble of notes. The door of the ladies' powder room swung open as a crowd of laughing girls spilled into the hall, shoulders bare and lipstick freshly painted in bright, challenging flourishes of color. They barely noticed her; Vivian dodged around them, head ducked down, and hurried toward the back door.

It wasn't locked; it rarely was during business hours, since it opened only onto a cramped trash-pile of an alley. You could leave—or enter—that way if you were determined to find your way through the maze of streets that it joined. But mostly the Nightingale's patrons came there for a breath of air on a sweaty night.

The cold sent goose bumps chasing across Vivian's skin, and the light from inside skittered ahead of her. But she didn't want light just then any more than she wanted company. She let the door slam shut, leaving her in the slinking, moonlit shadows. It was heavy on purpose, cutting off the sound of the Nightingale from anyone who wasn't supposed to know it was there. But the city itself was never silent. Vivian closed her eyes, arms wrapped around herself as she listened to the distant sounds of animals fighting, a baby wailing, the tinny strains of a jazz record spilling from someone's open window.

The city didn't care that a man had been stabbed to death that morning. It wouldn't care if she was arrested for his murder and was never part of its endless noise again.

Good thing she was used to looking after herself.

At last, Vivian took a deep breath, her smiling mask ready to slide back into place for the rest of her shift. But before she could turn the knob, the door swung open. Vivian had to skip back, nearly turning an ankle, so it wouldn't hit her.

"Careful!" she gasped, one hand out to catch her balance on the alley wall as the dark silhouette of a man filled the doorway. "Watch where you're…"

She trailed off as he stepped forward, the shadows growing less severe and the dim light of the alley sliding across his face like a warning.

"Watch where I'm going?" Cornelius Rokesby asked. When he let the door fall closed, the sound of the latch catching was the loudest thing Vivian had ever heard. Without meaning to, she took another step back. "Golly, that's good advice, sweetheart. Shame someone didn't give it to you before you ran out here." He glanced around the alley, then turned back to her. The smile that pulled at one corner of his mouth made her stomach drop. "All by yourself."