Page 57 of If Looks Could Kill
“We’re not.” My heart sank. “But Emma and Carrie are. They’re young enough to be mistaken for us. And the Bowery is a small place. How hard would it be to figure out where the local Salvation Army women live?”
He nodded grimly. “Not hard at all. Not,” he added, “as though I’ve ever done it.”
I ignored this. “They’re in danger,” I said. “Once these men figure out where we live—”
“Who are Emma and Carrie?”
“They share an apartment with Pearl and me.” I shivered. “I need to warn them.”
A peal of church bells from somewhere uptown filled the night.
“Eight thirty,” Mike noted.
I couldn’t believe it. “Feels like midnight.”
Mike brought us onto a short, secluded street I didn’t recognize. It was well swept. A peeling street sign readLA GRANGE TERRACE, but roman letters chiseled into the side of a tall-columned building, in the city’s older style of naming streets, proclaimed itLAFAYETTE PLACE. The imposing marble building dominated the whole block. Its ornate columns held up a porticoed roof in the grand Federal style, but the marble was shaggy withdead ivy and dark with staining. It seemed this building held a row of elegant townhomes. Or, from the looks of things, elegant once upon a time. It had the feel of forgotten glory, faded majesty.
“Well, we’re here,” Mike said. “Now what?”
I swallowed down my dread. “Now I go looking for help.”
“Looking for help?” he said. “Do you… do you know someone here?”
I shook my head. “No. But I think there might be someone here who will help us.”
He frowned. “Just randomly?”
“No,” I said. “There’s someone here. I think. I can explain. But first, let me see what I can find.”
I pushed through the cast-iron gate, went to one of the doors where lights shone in the windows, and knocked. Behind me, Cora and Freyda bobbed up and down to keep warm. Pearl still stood in a daze. Mike stood close by them, chafing his hands together.
An ancient butler answered the door. He frowned at me suspiciously. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for, er, Mrs. Stella,” I told him. “Does she live here?”
He looked even more dubious. “MissStella,” he informed me, “lives three doors down.” He gestured to his right, then closed the door.
I crossed the cracked marble paving stones and rapped my knuckles on the third door.
Nothing happened. I waited and strained my ear for any sounds of movement within.
If nobody answered, where in all this city could we find safe shelter on such a cold night? Some cheap hotel, perhaps, but we’d be sitting ducks. Nothing would stop Mother Rosie’s men from finding us there.
I pounded more loudly at the door and pulled my Salvation Army jacket back on for warmth, risk or no.
Just as I was about to turn away, I heard the click of footsteps, then sawa slice of light slide underneath the door. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath.
The door creaked open, just an inch, and an eye peered out at me. Apparently, I made its owner curious enough to open the door a bit more.
A frail, petite older woman stood there, watching me underneath bushy white eyebrows.
“Who—”
“I’m looking for Miss Stella,” I said quickly. My voice sounded shrill in the night air.
Her gaze narrowed. “How do you know… her?”
Oh no. As I feared, this was Miss Stella. I was hoping she might be her great-grandmother. Any thought of protection coming from this wisp of a woman seemed laughable.
