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A KNOCK RATTLED THE door, and ice swept through Carla.
She dragged in a slow breath.
A knock, only a knock. Not the crack of gunfire. Not the thud of lead hitting the motorcar. She adjusted her dressing gown and smoothed the quilt covering her lower body. “Come in.”
The door swung open, and Frank rolled in, his face red and his lips pressed into a thin line.
“Is something wrong?” She clasped her hands to still their trembling. Give me peace, Lord. Please.
“Depends on how you look at it.”
Was that cryptic statement supposed to calm her?
“Hazel—she calls herself Lillian now—and her husband are here.” He frowned. “She told him about you and how you came to be here, and he wants to talk to you.”
“Why would he want to talk to me? What could he do?”
He tapped the armrests of his chair. “He used to be one of them.”
His sister’s husband had worked for her grandfather? Please, Lord. No.
Frank shook his head. “He was with the Rossis. He now claims to be a Christian and a Prohibition agent.”
A Prohibition agent. His organization would stand more of a chance of bringing her parents’ murderers to justice than the local sheriff. And surely her family couldn’t have paid him off.
Yet what could she tell him? She hadn’t even been able to see through years of deceit.
He stilled his tapping. “I’d be glad to tell him to leave.”
Maybe he could help. Maybe he could bring Mamma and Papà’s murderers to justice. “I’d like to talk to him.”
His face hardened. “You’re sure? He’s a rough sort.”
“He’s your brother-in-law. He can’t be all that bad.”
He edged his chair around and rolled toward the door. “He’s the husband of my estranged sister, but that’s a story for another time.”
He closed the door behind him.
Was Hazel’s husband as dangerous as Emilio and Dario?
Steady footsteps echoed down the hall and paused outside her door. The door swung open, and a man entered.
A man a hundred times worse than her cousins. Black hair. Dark, hard eyes. Scars stretching across his face, most on the right side. And he walked as if he were accustomed to fighting, his tall, muscular frame moving with an almost unassuming ease.
She blinked and motioned to the chair Mrs. Ashton occupied when she visited. “You—you wished to speak to me? I don’t think I know anything ... helpful ... I ...” Why did her voice have to betray her?
He pulled the chair away from the wall and lowered himself into it. “Miss Belardi, I’m Alberto Moretti. I’ve been working with the Prohibition Unit. Lillian told me some of what happened to you. And about your family.” He rested his hands on his knees. Whitened scars ran over his knuckles and across the back of his right hand.
Those murderers were her family in name only. What kind of family members sought to kill their own relation?
He leaned forward. “I’m sorry about your mother and father.”
Heat filled her eyes.
“I have no reason to believe you’re in danger here. From what I can gather, they think they succeeded in killing you.”
Throbbing settled in her chest.
“I was told you weren’t aware your parents were involved.”
She managed a nod. “Yes. They hid it from me.” She pressed her lips together before they could tremble. “Looking back, I should’ve seen something was wrong, but ...”
He offered a ghost of a smile. “Easy to look back and say that. Not so easy to see it when you’re in the middle of it.” He cleared his throat. “Why should you have seen something was wrong?”
“Little things.” Moisture fled her mouth, and she swallowed hard. “Mamma and Papà argued, but they always did so in private. When my relatives would come over, Mamma would take me away from them. And Papà would frequently come home very early in the morning after being out most of the night.”
“Was there more than the little things?”
“Papà owned a restaurant. I—I suppose it did well. But not well enough for him to afford the house we lived in or four new Packards. And he was shot in the shoulder. He said it was a robbery, but I later found out through my cousins it was related to ... to his other work. And he was gone for a week one time. He claimed it was an unexpected business trip. My—my cousins told me he’d been in jail.”
“Your cousins. That’d be Emilio and Dario Belardi, the nephews of Anthony Belardi.”
“He’s my grandfather.” The man who’d likely ordered her death. “Emilio and Dario came to me after—after the funeral. Emilio revealed all the ... lies I’d been told and demanded my loyalty to the family.” Her throat tightened. “He held a gun to my head and threatened to kill me. I—I told him I’d be loyal.”
Tears slicked hot down her cheeks. “I ran. I couldn’t do anything else. But someone caught up to me. They—they shot at the motorcar, and ... and they shot me. I ...”
She ducked her head and swiped away the tears. Crying would do no good. It wouldn’t bring Mamma and Papà back. It wouldn’t heal the gunshot wound in her chest.
She lifted her head.
He met her eyes, his hands clenched into fists. “I give you my word. I’ll do all I can to see they never hurt or kill again.”
He took a slow breath. “Do you know anything about the locations of the speakeasies they operate, where they store their booze, or where they get it?”
“No. Other than the club Papà operated out of the basement of his restaurant. I can give you the address.”
He pulled a piece of paper and a pencil from his coat pocket. “Might be better if I write. You’re not moving that right arm well.”
She rattled off the address. “I don’t know any more.”
He folded the paper and returned it and the pencil to his pocket. “You’ve been helpful.”
“I’m sorry I was ... emotional.”
He shook his head. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. I’ll pray for you.”
“Thank you. Frank said you used to be ... to be like ...” She shook her head. “But he said you were saved.”
He met her eyes, his gaze steady. “Yes. But God saved me. Don’t know why, but He did. He washed my sins away.”
Burning filled her eyes. “He did the same for me.”
He stood. “I was reading in Psalms on the train this morning and came across a verse.” He slipped his hands in his pockets. “Applied to my life, and I’m thinking you could use it too. ‘From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I.’”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Everything else had fallen away. Her parents, her home, her future, her health. Yet that Rock stood fast, unmoving, unshaken. And that Rock was Christ. Her Savior.
**
THE PARLOR GAPED AROUND Frank, devoid of life save for the barn cat Ma had let inside. He rolled to the rocking chair supporting the cat and stroked the creature’s orange fur. The cat lifted his head and stared at him.
Ma’s and Hazel’s voices drifted from the kitchen, their conversation interspersed with laughter. How could Ma forget Hazel had run away with her criminal of a first husband and let them think she’d died?
Hazel was no longer the fun-loving girl he’d teased and chased around the barn during those long summer evenings. She wasn’t the girl he’d taught to fight and shoot. She wasn’t even the girl who’d sought to break the heart of every boy in town. She wasn’t Hazel.
No, she was Lillian, a broken shell of a woman who’d crawled back to her family to beg for forgiveness.
The cat rubbed his head against Frank’s hand.
“Who’ve you got there?”
Hazel’s voice. Every muscle in his upper body stiffened, and he rolled away from the cat.
Hazel knelt in front of the rocking chair and stroked the cat. “Ma says you’ve been helping Carla.”
He had no words to waste on meaningless conversation. If not for Carla occupying his room and the stairs separating him from the one he’d been using, he’d leave and spare Hazel the trouble of forcing herself to speak to him.
“It’s good of you.”
Since when did he need her affirmation? “Can’t you see you’re not wanted here?”
She flinched as if he’d struck her. “I know I’ve given you no reason to want me around, but we—we used to be friends.”
And she’d thrown it away without a thought of what she’d rejected. Heat flooded his neck, his face. “As far as I’m concerned, my sister’s dead and buried. You’re nothing but the Yankee wife of a criminal.”
Her lips parted, and tears welled in her eyes.
The cat jumped from the rocking chair, padded across the wood floor, and leaped into his lap. After circling once, then twice, he lay down on Frank’s lifeless legs.
Hazel stood, shoulders slumped, eyes downcast.
Maybe he’d been clear enough she’d leave him alone.
Yet she sank into the rocking chair and gripped her knees. White spread through her fingers. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”
Tightness expanded through his chest. “You said that once. Once was enough. Why don’t you go back to town? Get your husband and baby and leave us alone. That wasn’t hard for you before. It shouldn’t be now. And Pa would like it better if you weren’t here when he gets up.”
He slapped his chair’s armrests. “You hate us. Why not leave? We’re nothing but dirt-poor farmers. Not good enough for you.”
A tremor shook her shoulders, and she hugged her arms to her middle. Why wouldn’t she say anything in her defense? Not that she had a defense. Yet she’d never been reluctant to fight with him before.
He gripped both armrests and squeezed hard enough that numbness spread through his hands and wrists. Maybe the numbness would take over the rest of his body. Maybe it would steal him away from these worthless days. “Why don’t you say something?”
She lifted her head. Though red rimmed her eyes and her bottom lip trembled, no tears traced her face. “How can I say anything? I know better than you what I was.”
He motioned to the door. “Then get out. Now.”
Moretti stepped into the doorway, a scowl etched on his face. With slow, easy steps, he crossed to where Hazel sat and rested his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
“What do you know about her? You were too busy doing her husband’s dirty work.”
Moretti closed his free hand into a fist.
“Why don’t you go ahead and try it?” Frank nodded to that clenched fist. “Go ahead. Beat me up. Prove what a coward you are.”
Red brushed Hazel’s cheeks. “He’s no coward.”
“Oh, I forgot. He’s not just a coward. He’s a murderer too.”
Moretti slipped his hand from Hazel’s shoulder to her elbow and brought her to her feet. “Why don’t you go see what your mother’s doing? Seems this kid wants to talk to me alone.”
Kid? The man couldn’t be more than five years his senior. The word was nothing more than an insult, nothing more than a way for Moretti to elevate himself above Frank. That he stood above him was bad enough.
Hazel walked from the room, and Moretti rested his hand on the back of the rocking chair.
“You heard what I said. The same applies to you too. Leave.” They had no place here, no place in the family Hazel had destroyed.
“Trying to pick a fight?” Moretti tipped the rocking chair back and forth.
He had no chance of winning a physical fight with the man, but in a war of words, he had a good advantage over Hazel’s husband. Five years had given him much time to read, to expand his knowledge, to develop his logic.
“I don’t fight cowards, and that’s what you are. What’d you do in the war? Did Rossi buy your way out?”
“Matter to you if he did?” Moretti unclenched his fist and slipped his hand into his pocket.
“I like to know when I’m talking to a coward.” If he said the word enough, Moretti would respond. Men like him didn’t possess self-control.
“Tied up in that, aren’t you, kid?”
Moretti thought he could ridicule him. Well, arrogance did nothing for the man.
“I didn’t fight in your war.” Moretti lowered himself into the chair and rested his elbows on his thighs. “Took a bullet in the chest that exempted me from service.”
“And if you hadn’t been shot as a result of your criminal activities, would you have gone?” He rested his hand on the sleeping cat.
Moretti raised an eyebrow. “No. I had no interest in fighting other men’s wars.”
He’d admitted he was a coward. “You’re nothing but a murderer. A common criminal. You’re not even good enough for the likes of my sister.”
Moretti leaned back in the chair. “What’re you trying to prove? That I sin?” He laughed. “God’s already proven that. It’s clear as can be in the Bible.”
He wouldn’t discuss theology with this man. “Get out. And take your wife with you. Better yet, go back to New York.”
Moretti stood. “Lillian’s your sister. Treat her with respect.”
She deserved no respect.
Frank rolled to the window and opened the curtains. Let Moretti stand there. He had nothing further to say to him.
The yard stretched before him, the grass brown. Water pooled in the deep ruts in the drive. Why had he bothered saying anything to Hazel? Why had he picked a fight with Moretti?
“Can’t hide forever, kid.”
Moretti’s steps echoed from the room, thudding in time with the tick of the grandfather clock.
No, he had nowhere left to hide.
**
ALBERTO WRAPPED HIS arm around Lillian’s shoulders, pulled her to his side, and leaned against the kitchen counter.
Mrs. Ashton sat at the table, her hands clasped before her, lines spreading from her eyes. “Don’t pay him no mind. He’s not himself. Hasn’t been since he came back from the war.”
Brother or no brother, Frank had no right to talk to her the way he had. No right to cause those tears to trail down her face. No right to make her hand shake as she ran it over the kid’s head.
“Not your fault. We’d better get home.”
Lillian tugged a handkerchief from her dress pocket, blew her nose, and situated Matteo in her arms.
Mrs. Ashton stood and pushed the chair close to the table. “You’ll come back, won’t you? I don’t want to lose my Hazel again.”
Lillian slipped her handkerchief into her pocket. “I’ll be over later this week. I suppose I shouldn’t have tried to talk to him, but I thought ... I hoped things would be different.”
Mrs. Ashton pressed a kiss to Lillian’s forehead, smoothed the kid’s hair, then patted Alberto’s arm. “Did Carla have anything to tell you?”
No use going into things. The less Mrs. Ashton knew the better. “Take care of her. She’s had a rough time.”
“I will.”
“Maude.” The sharp, rough voice rattled through the kitchen, followed by the heavy tread of a man’s boots.
Lillian stiffened against him.
George Ashton strode into the kitchen and narrowed his bloodshot eyes at Alberto. “Maude, what’s that scum doing in my house? I’ve got no use for government men.”
As if he needed this after the confrontation with Frank.
Ashton grabbed a shotgun from the corner, thumbed back both hammers, and leveled it at Alberto’s gut.
“George!” Mrs. Ashton surged to his side, gripped his arm. “Please put that down.”
Alberto pushed Lillian away from him. No need for her or the kid to get hit should the crazy man pull the trigger. Or triggers. “Mrs. Ashton, it’s all right. Let go of him.”
As if the man needed to be jostled around with his finger on the trigger.
She released Ashton’s arm, hurried to Lillian, and moved her and the kid well out of range.
“Pa, no. You can’t do this.” Trembling caught Lillian’s voice.
Alberto lifted his hands and took a slow step forward.
Ashton cursed. “Stay where you are, or I’ll blow you apart.”
“Put it down. There’s no reason for this.”
Ashton’s upper lip curled. “Ain’t no reason for you to come into my house. Ain’t no reason for you to be sniffing around here looking for ways to throw me in jail. Ain’t no reason at all. Now get out. And if I ever see you around here again, I’ll kill you. Can’t miss with this thing.”
“Put the gun down.” He could lunge, grab the barrel, and force it up in the air. He could’ve drawn his .45 as Ashton grasped the shotgun. Yet he had to make sure this ended without violence and without making things worse between Lillian and her family.
“You coming in my house thinking you can give me orders, boy?”
“You know, I don’t think you’d pull that trigger.” He took another step. “Lillian tells me you’re a decent man when you’re not riled up on booze, and I don’t think you’d kill a man who wasn’t threatening to kill you or your family.”
The barrel of the shotgun gaped a couple of feet from his gut. Another step and it’d brush his coat.
Ashton cursed again. “You don’t know a thing about me.”
“But I’ve learned when a man’s about to pull a trigger.”
A cruel smile cracked Ashton’s face. “Then you’ve been looking wrong. I’d like nothing more than to give you both barrels.”
“But you wouldn’t.” He took the last step, closed his hand around the barrel of the shotgun, and eased it to the side and up.
Curses spilled from Ashton’s mouth, but he loosened his hold on the weapon.
Alberto lifted it away from him and leaned it against the counter. Sweat slicked his palms, and he brushed them on his trousers. “Lillian, you ready to go?”
Ashton stood rigid, shaking with tension, face flushed red. “Get out. Get out now.”
Alberto tipped his head to the back door, and Lillian hurried through. “Mrs. Ashton, thanks for letting me speak with the girl. Sorry for any trouble I’ve caused you.”
Mrs. Ashton stepped to her husband’s side and rested a hand on his arm. “Nothing to apologize for.”
Ashton glared at her.
With measured steps, Alberto crossed the kitchen and stepped outside. Lillian stood waiting, clutching Matteo to her.
He caught her arm. “Come on. Might as well get out of here.”
She spoke not a word as he guided her to the front of the house, as he started the Ford, as he steered it down the rough driveway. “I shouldn’t have come.” All he’d done was cause more trouble between her and her family.
She slid across the seat and leaned against his shoulder. “It’s not your fault. It all comes down to what I’ve done.”
“God’s forgiven you.” No condemnation. A sure promise backed by the God Who could never lie.
“I know, but sin has a way of affecting everyone around. And my sins hurt my family.”
“Yes, you sinned. But your father also chose to start drinking. Frank chose to let the war and your leaving eat him up.”
“If I hadn’t left ...”
“You’re forgiven. You can’t go back. You can’t change what you did.” Just as he couldn’t go back, couldn’t not pull the trigger all those times, couldn’t refuse to work for Mr. Rossi. Yet he could trust God had declared him righteous because of Jesus.
“I read Psalms on the train ride down. Came across a lot of verses. This is one of them. ‘As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us.’”
“I know, and I’m thankful, so thankful, for it. But I don’t know what to do, how to live.”
He steered the motorcar around a pothole. “Do your best to glorify God. That’s all you can do.” He was no preacher. John Scranton—the pastor who’d married them—would have a better answer. “We’ve got to trust Him.”
“I do.” She lifted her head from his shoulder. “At least I try to.”
“It’s a fight.” As much of a fight as what awaited him with the Belardis.