I think of the gun lying against Father’s chair and poise my pen above the notebook. But what about that could possibly be helpful to the detectives? Walter was probably right; my best friend went missing from three houses down, and it naturally made my father paranoid. That’s all it was.
I close my eyes and pray—something I’ve done more in the last day than in the last five years combined—that even a single item I’ve written down might be useful to bringing Lydia home.
Detective Cassano opens the gate at 2:57. He smiles and tips his homburg when he sees me sitting on the front steps. “Good afternoon, Miss Sail.”
“It’s Piper, please.” My hands are clammy against the notebook I clutch. “And good afternoon, detective.”
He stops at the bottom of the stairs and rests his elbow against the rail. I can just make out the lump of his holstered gun. “If you insist on me calling you Piper, then it seems you should call me Mariano.”
Mariano Cassano. It has a musical quality to it, like a familiar but forgotten tune. “I’ve never known a Mariano before.”
His lips curl into a slight smile. “Family name.”
“Mine too. It was my mother’s maiden name. Father wanted to call me Caroline, after his mother, but mine insisted on Piper. So I’m Piper Caroline.”
Detective Cassano’s—Mariano’s—dark gaze stays steady on me as I share more about my name than he likely cares to hear. Is he as young as he looks? He’s handsome, with his olive skin and strong jaw. He might even be strikingly handsome, were I of the mindset to be struck.
“Are you able to take a walk around the block with me, Piper? I thought you could help familiarize me with the neighbors.”
My heart leaps—that sounds like I might actually be useful. “Of course. Just let me tell my family.”
I pull open the door, dash down the hallway toward the kitchen, and practically run into Walter. “Oh, hi. I’m taking a walk with Detective Cassano. I’ll be back in a bit.”
His face folds into a deep frown. “I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I don’t think your father would like the idea of you walking around the neighborhood alone.”
“I’ll be with the police, I’m fine.” Walter hesitates, and I put my hands on my hips. “I’m not asking permission, you know. This is just a courtesy so that you know where I am.”
“Fine,” Walter says as I retreat. “See you later.”
I rush outside without bothering to grab a hat.
Mariano has his back to the door when I come out, and he turns to smile at me. “This is good of you, Piper. Neighborhoods can be impossible to understand without an insider’s perspective.”
“I’m just happy to feel useful. To be able to do something other than sit by the phone and wait.” I charge through the gate that he holds open for me. “Did you see Dr. and Mrs. LeVine?”
He nods.
“And?”
Mariano glances at me, his brown eyes searching. “They were how you’d expect. Tired. Scared.”
“I was there yesterday after school, and I don’t think Mrs. LeVine ever stopped crying.”
“They said you had come by. I got the impression you were a great comfort to them.”
“I hope so.” Because that’s not the impression I left with. I hug my notebook to my chest. “They’ve never particularly cared for me.”
Mariano’s face creases with his frown. “Why do you say that?”
“Because they don’t.” My laugh holds no humor. “Lydia . . . Well, she’s as close to perfect as they come. Sweet and kind-hearted and well-mannered. We were a strange match, and her parents wouldn’t have minded Lydia spending time with other friends.”
“Are you not sweet, kind-hearted, and well-mannered, Piper?”
“No. I’m not.”
He chuckles at this, though amusing him wasn’t my intention. “And how long have you lived here?”
“As long as I can remember. I was two when we moved in.”
“So you know all the neighbors, then?”
I nod and, feeling bashful, hand him the notebook. “I made this. Just in case . . . You know. In case something happened to her.” I tuck my hair behind my ears and swallow a gulp of air. “I don’t know how helpful this will be, but I tried to think of everyone I could who might have had even a slight grudge against the LeVine family. I listed neighbors in there. With a map.”
I feign interest in Mrs. Jensen’s peonies as Mariano looks through my notebook. I should brace myself for the likely response—that it’d be better for everyone if I stayed out of this. That the professionals are more than capable of handling Lydia’s case. But I can’t stop myself from thinking he might appreciate my efforts. Detective Mariano Cassano seems to be the only person who realizes that what I know could matter.
Mariano taps on an open page. “What’s this one?”
“Oh.” Heat stains my cheeks. “I tried to document every conversation Lydia and I had in the last week. Just in case it was of any importance.”
Mariano’s footsteps slow. “She hoped to marry Matthew?” He looks at me. “Things were that serious?”
“Yes. I mean, no.” I shake my head. “I don’t know, honestly. I think she was just feeling theatrical when she said that. But when you first told me she was missing, I wondered if maybe she’d run off with him.”
Mariano stops walking, and his thoughts are clearly far away. “I talked to Matthew extensively yesterday and today. He insisted that if Lydia had feelings for him, he was unaware.”
I read skepticism in Mariano’s expression. “He told me the same. But when Lydia left my house on Tuesday, she said she was going to tell him as soon as she got home.” In my memory, I see her waving to me from her gate, beaming. Tears flood my eyes. “I’m so sorry.” I reach into the pocket of my gray skirt only to find it empty.
“No apologies necessary.” Mariano pulls a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit. “If I may say so, Piper, I think you’ve shown remarkable strength these twenty-four hours.”
I attempt to laugh, but it sounds more like a hiccup. “I don’t think it’s sunk in yet, to be honest.”
“That’s normal, I promise. In your opinion, how does Matthew feel about Lydia?”
I dab my eyes with Mariano’s handkerchief, which has a minty, clean smell. “I don’t know for sure.”
“I’d like to know your thoughts.”
I bite my lower lip as I look up at him. “Matthew has always seemed very closed off to me. My brother Nick was much more obvious. I could tell he fancied her. But Matthew . . .” I sigh. “I don’t understand how he couldn’t, but I also can’t point to evidence he did either.”
I hold Mariano’s handkerchief out to him, but he shakes his head. “Hold on to it for now.”
“Thank you.” I grasp it between my fingers and find we’ve wandered off Astor Street and toward State. All without me mentioning a single neighbor. “I’m sorry, I’m being a terrible tour guide, aren’t I?”
Mariano holds up the notebook. “You’ve more than made up for it, Piper. Thank you for this.”
When he tucks it inside his coat, I catch another glimpse of the gun holstered around his waist. Fear skitters up my spine, which is silly. He’s a detective. Of course he wears a gun. There’s something about Mariano Cassano, though—his age? His face?—that makes me forget this is his job.
With a spark of intimidation, I realize that suggests he’s excellent at what he does.
My notebook seems suddenly childish. “I hope it’s helpful. I just wanted to feel like I’d done something.”
“I know the feeling.” He clasps his hands behind his back as we turn onto State Street. “Yesterday, you told me that Lydia was angry about being sent to Minnesota. Was that related to her feelings for Matthew?”
“Yes. She seemed to think it would mess everything up if she had to spend a few months at the hospital there, and I thought it would be a good test of her
feelings. But of course I know lots of details about her seizures and she doesn’t, so I suppose it’s easier for me to prioritize her getting healthy.” The tears strangle my final words, and a humorless laugh bubbles out of me as I press Mariano’s handkerchief to my eyes. “You were smart to let me hang on to this.”
But he’s not walking beside me anymore. I turn and find he’s stopped on the sidewalk. “What do you mean, she had seizures?”
His question causes an icy blast of disbelief to run through me. “Did they not tell you?” It seems impossible. I knew the LeVines guarded Lydia’s condition carefully, but . . . “Lydia has recurring seizures. A type of epilepsy, I think. Though they would never dare say that word.”
I half expect his face to relax, for him to laugh and say, “Oh, right, that. Of course they told me that.”
But he doesn’t. He only stares.
“You hadn’t been told.”
He shakes his head. “No.”
I take a deep breath. “I can’t believe they didn’t tell you.” The words fall out before I can think better of them. “They’re very private about it due to Dr. LeVine’s profession. Even Lydia didn’t know. She thought they were just fainting spells. I only knew because I happened to witness two.”
From his pocket, Mariano pulls out my notebook. “Is all that in here? The seizures?”
“Everything is. Everything that seemed as if it might help.”
Mariano stares at the notebook a moment and then slides it back in his pocket. When he looks at me, his gaze feels heavy. “Thank you, Piper.” He resumes walking, his hands deep in his trouser pockets, his narrow shoulders hunched.
He’s quiet. The only sounds are the young green leaves rustling in the afternoon wind and the passing cars. Is the same question—why did the LeVines not tell the detectives about Lydia’s seizures?—pulsing in his head like it is mine?
“I assume you know the family who lives in this house.”
I glance at the Barrows’ tall, narrow brick home. “Yes, of course. The Barrow family lives here. Lydia watches their son sometimes.”
“Lydia told you she planned to visit them that evening, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know them well?”
I shrug. “Not really.”
“Have you ever cared for their son?”
“Children and dogs terrify me. They have both.”
“It’s a funny thing.” Mariano adjusts his tie. “O’Malley and I visited them yesterday and this morning. Lydia never arrived, both Mr. and Mrs. Barrow say. But the young boy has been acting peculiar since that night. Or so I gather from something the mother said. We never actually saw the boy.”
Despite the warmth of the afternoon sun, my arms prickle with goose bumps. “Peculiar how?”
“This morning, his mother said he’s been sullen. They didn’t want him knowing that Lydia was missing, didn’t want to frighten him. But she made a comment this morning that he must sense something has happened, because she hasn’t been able to get him to speak a word.”
Mariano turns to me, and his eyes seem assessing. Seem to ask, can I trust you? “Perhaps it’s nothing. Perhaps my suspicion is only because of something that happened in my family when my mother died.”
My heart squeezes. I’ve been there, my soul wants to say to his. I know the pain.
“She died in labor with my youngest brother. My second-youngest brother, Alessandro, was five at the time, same as the Barrows’ son. And after Mama’s funeral, we could barely get him to speak. Mostly, he just clung to my sister. He screamed in his sleep sometimes, but it was months before he would really talk. The doctor had seen it before, with children who witnessed something traumatic. It didn’t make sense to us at first, because we didn’t think Alessandro had seen anything.”
Mariano’s Adam’s apple bobs as he casts his gaze on a passing car. “But we found out later that Alessandro had snuck into the room during all the commotion. That he had been in there for the screaming, and then . . . then for the silence.”
When Mariano turns to me, his eyes are dry but his face makes my heart ache. “Perhaps it’s a coincidence, Cole Barrow’s silence. But it bothers me. And his parents won’t let us near him. Would you mind, Piper? I’ve no business asking it of you, but seeing as you know Cole, if you happened to be around him in the next day or two, I would like to know your opinion of his behavior.”
“Yes.” The word emerges breathless. I’m being asked to help! “Of course.”
“Though, if you pay a visit, I would suggest you do it at a time when it’s only Mrs. Barrow and her son. And I would bring someone with you. Your brother, perhaps.”
“I will.” As Mariano and I walk past where Walter and I found Lydia seizing, I clutch the handkerchief tighter and seek to distract myself from the memory. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother. How old were you when she died?”
“Seven.”
I wince. “Are you able to remember her very well?”
His look is questioning.
“My mother died when I was thirteen, and I don’t remember as clearly as I wish. Seven would be much worse.”
“Losing a good mother is never well-timed.” Mariano’s smile is wry. “I try to feel grateful that I had seven years. My brothers had far less.”
“How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
Mariano’s gaze hangs on me for a moment. He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again. “I’m sorry, I’m just surprised. I can’t recall anyone I’ve investigated asking me questions.”
My stomach flips at the term. “Am I being investigated?”
“Oh, not like that. You’re part of the investigation, I mean. And usually no one is too interested in my childhood.” Mariano tweaks his tie. “I’m the second oldest. My sister is twenty-three, and my brothers are nineteen and fourteen.”
Emma Crane is seated on her front porch, perusing the newspaper and drinking a glass of milk. She gives me a slight smile and wave but doesn’t call out.
“Were you all born in the states?”
“Yes, though Gianna, just barely. My parents had only been in Chicago a few weeks when she was born. She arrived a month earlier than anticipated.”
I shudder involuntarily. “How terrifying for them. Your mother must have been very brave.”
He doesn’t say anything, but the warm look he gives makes me feel as though I’ve done something special.
“Thank you for the walk, Piper,” Mariano says several minutes later as he holds open the gate to my yard. “You were very helpful.”
“Good.”
He walks alongside me to the front door. “And if you do happen to speak to Cole, please telephone me to let me know what you think.”
“I will.” I bite back the urge to thank him for giving me a task.
Mariano tips his hat. “Good afternoon, Piper.”
“Good-bye.”
But before he reaches the bottom step, he pivots and climbs the stone steps once more. Mariano stops on the stair below mine, making us the same height. “I’m probably just being overly cautious, but I would recommend you not visit the LeVine house by yourself.”
The words wrap around my heart with icy fingers.
“I’m sure it’s just paranoia getting the best of me.” There’s warmth on my arm, and I glance down to find Mariano’s hand resting on the crook of my elbow. “But I think it’d be best—safest—if you stay away from there for now.”
I nod because I can’t seem to speak. With a farewell squeeze of my arm, he strides purposefully through the gate.
CHAPTER
SIX
Walter’s rag pauses midwipe of the glass. “I cannot believe he’s asked this of you.” He turns away from the windowpane to look at me. “Is he the police, or are you?”
“But the Barrows won’t let the police talk to Cole.” I fuss with the pearl necklace Father gave me on my eighteenth birthday. “It’s something I can do to be helpful.”
In the
reflection of the window, I catch Walter scowling as he returns to cleaning. “Haven’t you been plenty helpful already? I mean, how long was that walk yesterday? An hour?”
The air is heavy with the threat of rain, and his words make me want to start my own storm right here on the front porch. Plenty helpful? What does that even mean? But I know from experience that digging in my heels only makes Walter dig his in deeper, and I need him.
“Ignoring your gross exaggeration, what better use of my time could there possibly be but to provide information that might help us recover Lydia safely?”
Walter methodically wipes the window dry. He hangs the towel over the edge of the bucket of vinegar water, and then comes to stand near me, where the front porch meets the walkway. His knickers are grubby from a morning of working in the yard and his cheeks are smudged with dirt. But he doesn’t talk, just looks at me.
“Please come with me. Nick is at the library, and I don’t want to go alone.”
Walter rests against the porch rail. “It scares me, you poking around in this business with Lydia.”
“Mariano wouldn’t have asked me to do it if he thought it was dangerous.”
“Mariano?”
“Detective Cassano.”
Walter huffs an exhale. “You and the detective are on a first-name basis?”
Embarrassment flares within me. “I’m just trying to do what I can to get Lydia home, and it’s not going to hurt things to be friendly with one of the detectives working on her case. That’s all this is.”
“I still don’t like the idea of him sending you on errands,” Walter mutters as he kicks at the ground with the toe of his work boot. “You can save your eyelash batting for the detective, though. Give me a few minutes to get cleaned up, and I’ll walk you over there.”
The Lost Girl of Astor Street Page 8
