“The veil kept the wind off you. Finally, something in that hideous thing’s favor.”

  She watched—witless again—as he unwound his scarf and draped it around her neck. The wool was impossibly soft, the fibers still warm from his skin, and it smelled like him. She fingered the intricate stitching, each loop and weave speaking of careful, loving work. And now he was lending it to her. She dipped her chin into its folds to conceal her smile.

  And for once, she let someone else take care of her.

  Chapter 12

  Railroad Avenue reeked of coal smoke, fish guts, and rot. Emil held his breath as he picked his way from the docks to the main avenue, crossing loaded switch tracks warily, one eye on the iron boxcars streaked with grime, the other on the splintered planks beneath his feet. One misstep, and he might tumble into the filth below—an ill-begotten tidal stew. He paused as a locomotive rolled past, its massive wheels shrieking, then darted the final distance to the other side.

  He sagged, his hands on his knees. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Mighty bold of you, Mr. Anderson, to cross the tracks at this busy hour.”

  Emil’s neck prickled in warning, and he straightened slowly. What cause had a man to know his name at the docks? None, unless he knew Emil had been down there three times in the past week. Asking dockworkers questions. Examining crates for property markings connected to Harvey Gunn’s holdings. Ducking into occupied and abandoned warehouses alike, trying to get a sense of what Gunn was up to. Seemed his approach had finally attracted the elusive man’s attention.

  Or, at least, his henchmen.

  Three men lounged against a stack of barrels, watching him with more interest than was warranted. One sat with hands folded across his chest. Another chewed on a piece of straw, and the third, whom Emil took for the speaker based on his proximity, flicked a switchblade open and closed with practiced ease.

  “Gentleman,” he said calmly. “Fine day we’re having.”

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  Emil took in the man’s towering height, the tailored brown suit, and the lack of Scottish brogue. “Mr. Corlett,” he concluded. Gunn’s enforcer.

  “Delighted,” the man replied. “You know, Mr. Anderson, my boss is a busy man. He’s got bigger fish to fry than some piddling detective poking around the docks. But he might start paying attention if you continue making yourself a nuisance. And you don’t want that."

  “No?”

  The switchblade snapped closed. “No.”

  “Then I’ll move along. Pleasant day, fellas.”

  He tipped his hat and ambled past the men, his pulse thudding with excitement. Gunn wouldn’t have planted men in his path unless he was getting too close. That alone told Emil he was onto something. With any luck, his contact at City Hall would dig up Gunn’s name in the backlog of building permit requests. Once he had a clearer picture of what the Scotsman was up to, he’d have something substantial to report to Wingate.

  And he’d give anything to get Wingate off his back for a few blessed minutes.

  The old man’s missives had begun arriving on his doorstep daily. Sometimes twice. One letter urging him to track down the composer for his party, the next warning him that Gunn’s dealings might endanger the whole waterfront. Each containing the same postscript—proceed with discretion. The shift in priorities made Emil’s head hurt. For weeks, Wingate had told him to focus on the composer. Now, without explanation, he was expected to dig faster on both fronts, no excuses. Did the man think he was a detective or a magician?

  Although…

  He should have solved the suffragist case by now. He needed it to convince Wingate he was worth taking a chance on. Emil thought back on the curt note he’d received the day before, telling him to hurry up and find her. The tonal shift had set Emil on edge. The last time they’d spoken in person, Wingate had made it seem like a lark. Like having the composer perform for his fiancée would merely be the icing on the cake. But if that were true, why the secrecy? The curtness? Why not simply hire a pianist like Olive to play the anthem? Something was missing from the man’s story—something important.

  But Emil knew the real reason he was loath to uncover the composer.

  In his gut, he knew Olive was involved. She was either protecting the composer…or she was the composer. He hadn’t yet decided. Or perhaps he wasn’t ready to decide. Wasn’t ready to end their game, where she led him around the city by the nose.

  Her methods were inventive. Clever. Humorous. They were just serious enough to keep him hooked, but ridiculous enough to waste his time. That’s what she was doing, he’d decided. Wasting his time while she figured out her next move. He was impressed, dammit. And he was enjoying himself. Why would he end all that when he didn’t yet know why Wingate wanted the identity discovered so badly?

  He reached into his inner coat pocket for his silver cigarette case. A smoke always helped him think. He lifted a thin cigarette to his lips, then flicked a match against the striker plate. He paused, his gaze fixed on the flame. Was this why Olive thought he smelled? He snorted, pressed the match to the end, and inhaled deeply. Her opinion shouldn’t matter—no, it didn’t matter. He was a grown man. Could do as he pleased.

  Then why did his fine tobacco turn to ash in his mouth?

  “Shit.”

  He glared at the cigarette, then snuffed it out on a nearby lamppost. Replaced it in its case and slammed the lid shut. The goddamn changeling was running the show even when she wasn’t there!

  There was no use denying it—Olive hadn’t left his thoughts since he’d spotted her skulking about the New Year’s Eve party. And not only because of the case. He couldn’t stop thinking about those giant doe-eyes that knocked him back a pace every damn time. That shy smile he could occasionally tug out of her. The way she was often distracted by sounds around her, as if each one was a melody only she could hear.

  It pained him that her family situation was so difficult. Her kid brother—Robbie—had revealed far more than Olive was comfortable with him knowing. She’d seemed to think he’d judge them. He’d felt many things, but judgment wasn’t one of them.

  Sympathy, that she’d lost her father.

  Respect, that she earned the family’s money.

  Pain, that her mother was unwell.

  And rage.

  Rage, that she’d been faint from hunger.

  He fingered the packet of peanuts in his coat pocket that he’d taken to carrying on the off-chance he ran into her. But he hadn’t in a few days. And that strange protective instinct had risen in him, again and again. Made him think about her in ways he never had another woman. It didn’t contradict any of his rules—his carefully crafted, iron-clad rules—but it was dangerous, nonetheless.

  “Shit,” he said again.

  A few hours later, Emil gazed up at the apartment building he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind.

  There was nothing special about it. Brick with simple terra-cotta decoration around the entrance, it was a standard sight around town. Unsubstantial, too, occupying less than half a block, and only three stories tall. Upon closer look, however, Emil noted some worrisome signs. The white trim was yellowing, and a few bricks bore scars where mortar had cracked away. The front door sat slightly ajar, its warped frame no longer permitting it to close properly, and though someone had taken the trouble to sweep the stoop, a dark stain near the base remained stubbornly in place.

  This was where Olive, Robbie, and their mother lived.

  He frowned and turned his back on the building. What the hell was he doing, showing up unannounced? He had no way of knowing if Olive was home, but his feet had led him there, regardless. Before he could do something stupid, like pull the call bell outside her front door, he strode down the street.

  A block down, he slowed. There was some commotion at the tiny park on the corner—a series of high-pitched whoops followed by a loud crack. Emil shielded his eyes against the hazy, fading sun and scoured the mostly dirt lot for the source. A young mother negotiating with a wailing child bundled in so many layers he appeared round—not them. Two men, their pants speckled with dust and grime from hard labor, sitting on a bench, passing a brown paper bag back and forth—not them. And at the far end of the park, a spindly kid holding a wooden bat jumped up and down while a young, slender woman chased after a ball—them. He raised two fingers to his lips and whistled sharply.

  Olive and Robbie turned as one. He raised a hand in greeting, already moving across the patchy grass to intercept them. Robbie returned the wave enthusiastically, but Emil’s eyes were on Olive. He didn’t miss the way she lit up when she recognized him, nor the way she quickly looked down and fumbled with the baseball mitt on her hand. Then he saw the forest green scarf around her neck.

  His scarf.

  The one he’d toiled over for weeks and had resolutely refused to let Astrid strip him of. The one he’d wound around Olive’s neck without hesitation, though he’d later managed to convince himself it was out of pity for her plight. But now—now, as he gazed at her in his scarf, the dappled sunlight playing over her features, he felt nothing but deep, primal satisfaction.

  “Hello,” he called, his voice louder than usual.

  “What are you doing here?” Olive asked in lieu of greeting, her delight fading into a worried frown. “I’m afraid I cannot investigate right now.”

  “That’s not why I’m here,” he said quickly.

  “It’s not about what happened the other day, is it?” A flush crept up her cheeks. “I assure you, it was out of the ordinary, a momentary weakness⁠—”

  “We’re all allowed moments of weakness, Olive.” He gave her a look. “But that’s not it either.”

  “Oh. Then…why?”

  “Why?” He scrambled for an answer. “I was in the neighborhood.”

  Her brow wrinkled as she looked around them. “This neighborhood?”

  “All right, fine. I was thinking about you. I wanted to see you.”

  “Oh.” She licked her lips, sending a jolt of desire through his limbs. “Oh.”

  Robbie pushed in between them. “Want to play with us?”

  “Yes,” he replied quickly. Anything to save himself from this horrible bout of truth-telling. “That is, if your sister agrees.”

  Olive studied him a moment longer, then nodded. “A new victim is most welcome.”

  “She’s bloodthirsty, Mr. Anderson. That’s why her pirate name is Bloody Ollie.”

  A laugh ripped from his chest, and he rubbed his hands together with delight. “Now I’m very eager to play.”

  She tipped her head, that adorable, shy smile making an appearance. “Best say your prayers.”

  He laughed again. “Game on.”

  She turned to Robbie. “Go over there and practice your swing. I need a minute alone with Mr. Anderson.”

  The boy groaned, but he did as told. Emil watched as he swung the bat with wild abandon, the force spinning him like a whirligig until he staggered in the dirt. Undeterred, he swung again, the air punctuated by grunts of exertion.

  “Is he fighting a hornet nest or playing baseball?”

  “He’s better on the field,” she said, watching her brother with a soft, indulgent expression. “But I’m hoping to tire him out. He was driving my mother mad.”

  “You’re a good sister,” he said. “Not every woman would be willing to toss a ball around.”

  “Is that so?” She began to lob the baseball in the air, rolling it across her fingertips before snatching it out of the air with her leather glove.

  Emil frowned. Glanced at the chaotic kid, then back to Olive’s casual execution. And realized his mistake. Robbie was playing Olive’s game, not the other way around.

  “I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”

  “Well, they do call me Bloody Ollie.”

  Shit, his heart was back to fluttering.

  Ignoring it, he thrust out his hand. “Are you going to loan me your glove or not?”

  “Not.” She shoved it behind her back, her eyes dancing. “Get your own.”

  “Are your fingers more precious than mine?”

  “Obviously,” she drawled out the first vowel. “One sprain or bruise and I might not be able to perform.”

  “There is some merit to that,” he admitted. “But if I am injured, I won’t be able to sort my papers as carefully. Or scoop my coffee as precisely.” She giggled, and his heart moved from flutter to full-on pounding.

  “Olive, I’m bored,” Robbie shouted from across the lawn. “Aren’t you ready yet?”

  He raised his brows. “Saved by an impatient sibling.”

  “Give Emil the bat,” she called. “It’s time for him to walk the plank.”

  Robbie ran over and handed him an old wooden bat. “Good luck.”

  “I don’t need luck.”

  “Yes, you do,” Olive and Robbie said at the same time.

  Grumbling—but grinning—Emil moved behind the home plate drawn in the dirt. He found his stance, then blinked in surprise. Was Olive capable of throwing from that far?

  The speed of her first pitch caught him off guard. He swung, a split second too late, and whiffed at empty air. Setting the bat on his shoulder, he gaped. Olive’s lips were pressed tightly together, but a smile still tugged at the corner of her mouth.

  “Strike one.”

  She was definitely more than she seemed. Of that he was damn certain—and damn intrigued.

  He backtracked for the ball, then lobbed it toward her. She caught it easily. Cockily, even. He aimed the bat at her, then swung it back into position. “I’m ready for you now.”

  “I’m just getting warmed up,” she countered.

  He barely had time to snort before she went into her windup. He braced himself, ready this time. At the last second, there was a subtle hitch, a flick of Olive’s wrist as the ball left her hand. His mind balked.

  “Was that a curveball?”

  “Didn’t we say you needed luck?” she taunted. “Strike two!”

  He retrieved the ball, then raised his bat with grim determination. He didn’t mind one strike, even two, but striking out? Hell no.

  Olive leaned into the wind-up, then hurled the ball toward him. He swung with all his might, delighted by the crack of wood as his bat connected. The ball soared over Olive’s head, past Robbie’s, and to the edge of the park.

  “Ha!” he shouted as he dropped the bat. “Home run, here I come!”

  Olive and Robbie shrieked as they flew after the ball. Emil dashed around the park in a rough diamond shape where he imagined the bases would be. He rounded second and glanced over his shoulder to determine his chances for third. Olive was a gazelle, loping across the earth as if born of it, her laughter floating on the wind. He swiveled mid-step, unable to look away⁠—

  And yelped as he collided with something solid. Something hard and prickly and painful. He collapsed to his knees and clutched his smarting shoulder.

  “Emil!” Olive was at his side a moment later. “Are you all right?”

  “No.” He glared up at the tree branch that had taken him out. “I was attacked.”

  Robbie crouched in the dirt on his other side, his breath ragged. “Does it hurt?”

  “Both my shoulder and my pride hurt. You could have told me nature played on your side.”

  Olive snorted. “I didn’t realize I needed to warn you about trees. Outside. In a park.”

  “I demand compensation,” he complained. “A formal apology from Mother Nature herself. A snack at the very least."

  “Cracker Jack,” Robbie said eagerly. “Mother Nature owes you Cracker Jack!”

  He pretended to think, then nodded. “A worthy apology.” He fished in his pocket and withdrew some coins. “Take this and run to the corner store, would you, kid?” Robbie leapt to his feet and pocketed the change without hesitation. “Enough for all of us, you hear? And maybe a Dr. Pepper if you promise to return the bottle after.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, then sprinted across the park.

  “Robbie would run a mile for Cracker Jack,” Olive said. “You just made a friend for life.”

  “He’s a good kid.” He shifted onto his behind, grimacing a little at the tug of pain.

  “You didn’t have to do that, but thank you.”

  “No thanks necessary. I wanted to.” He gave her a tight smile. “Besides, I needed him gone so you could examine my shoulder. I think the branch sliced right through my coat.”

  “Oh!”

  She knelt beside him and examined his shoulder. He had to breathe through his nose so as not to inhale the light violet aroma wafting from the tendrils of honey hair that escaped her knit hat.

  “There’s a tear on the left shoulder blade. And a bit of blood.”

  “Blood?” He shuddered. “I hate blood.”

  She chuckled, her breath tickling his ear. “Only the tiniest bit, you big crybaby. But I can’t…” She hummed under her breath, tugging gently on his collar, then shook her head. “I can’t see.”

  He unwound his scarf and dropped it in his lap, then shrugged one arm out of his coat and unbuttoned his collar to peel back his shirt. “How about now?”

  “Um. I—” She gulped. “Yes, I can—I can see better.”

  Then she was prodding his skin. He bit back a curse—he should have known her touch would be featherlight. Achingly gentle. Innocently enticing. It made him wonder how it would feel on other parts of him.

  “Distract me,” he pleaded.

  “That painful?” She clucked her tongue in sympathy. “All right. I like your scarf.”

  “My mother made it,” he lied.

  “Did she make this one too?”

  “Yes,” he lied again.

  “I shouldn’t have worn it again,” she said, her voice low and shy. “But it was so warm and I⁠—”

  “Keep it. It’s yours.”

  She paused briefly, then continued her prodding. “You’re being very kind.”

 

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