Lot’s wife looked back. Amelia would not. Her whole being was focused on what lay before her.
The air was unpleasantly sticky for May, with a still, oppressive quality that hinted at coming storms. The list, with the six names she’d been able to decipher, sat folded in her handbag as she stood outside the hotel. The doorman flagged a cab for her, and she climbed aboard almost before it had come to a stop.
“I’m headed to the Twenty-Sixth Street dock, but I have to make a stop first.”
“Whatever you say, miss.” The driver looked less sanguine, though, when she directed him to a seamy section of Willett Street on the Lower East Side.
“Don’t worry,” Amelia said as she alighted from the cab outside a row of saloons. “They know me here.”
She took the alley staircase to the second floor, then pounded on the door, hoping Charley was in. If he’d done a show the night before and gone out carousing afterward, there was no telling where he might have ended up. She waited for a count of five, then resumed hammering at the door with the side of her fist. She sighed with relief when an irritated voice came from the other side.
“Do you know what fucking time it is? You’d better have one hell of a good—” The door swung open, and Charley stood scowling at her. “Mellie.” The frown turned into a bemused look of welcome. “Long time.”
“Hi, Charley. It’s good to see you, too.”
He stepped back as she pushed past him into the apartment. It was surprisingly clean, although the tang of smoke and sour beer from the saloon below seeped up through the cracks in the floor.
“I need to look like an entirely different person. I can give you twenty minutes. And don’t call me Mellie,” she added as the door swung closed behind her. “You know I hate it.”
Fifteen minutes later, Amelia stepped back onto the sidewalk. She was now a well-rounded, thin-lipped woman with a head full of dark curls peeping from beneath a modestly stylish hat. Its brim tilted to cast a shadow over the last of the yellowing bruises on her face, to which Charley had also expertly applied a layer of stage makeup. The dress she wore was precisely the sort a well-bred, serious-minded woman would wear to visit a charitable institution. It hid the heeled boots that added three inches to her height.
The driver watched idly as she approached, his face devoid of recognition.
“We can go now,” she said.
He blinked and peered down at her from his perch. A slow smile spread over his face, and he shook his head. “I’d have never known you, miss.”
“That’s the idea,” she said. “To the docks now, please, as quickly as you can.”
By the time they arrived, there was a line of low, black clouds on the far horizon. The river had a smooth, sullen look. It hunkered between its banks as if held down by the heavy air.
Amelia’s scalp prickled with sweat beneath the wig, and the padded corset made her torso feel as though it were wrapped in several heavy quilts. She tried to ignore it, but she was flushed and perspiring by the time they reached the island.
“Looks like a storm,” the ferryman said as she disembarked. “Maybe we’ll get some rain, break this heat.”
“That would be welcome.” Amelia dabbed at her forehead with a handkerchief, trying not to ruin the carefully applied makeup.
She picked her way along the graveled path to the asylum—the heeled shoes were a disadvantage in such terrain—and walked into the Octagon with her nerves strung tight, prepared to smile and beg assistance from the first person she saw. Miss Matthew wouldn’t know her way around, would expect to be shown to Dr. Cavanaugh’s office. The edges of her smile melted when the first person she saw was Mrs. Brennan.
The nursing matron fixed her with a baleful look, and Amelia’s voice came out thin and breathless. “Ah. Hello. I’m here for an interview with Dr. Cavanaugh.”
Mrs. Brennan’s habitual scowl deepened at Andrew’s name, and she jerked her head toward the stairs. “Tell them at the main office. Second floor.” The nurse clumped away without giving Amelia another look.
Amelia released a breath. At least her disguise seemed to be working.
She turned for the stairs, her anxiety mounting as she neared her destination.
Winslow sat behind the front desk, seeming no worse for wear after his ordeal of the other night. Amelia’s stomach gave a queasy lurch when he looked at her. He wouldn’t recognize her. He couldn’t possibly. She looked nothing like the dirty boy he’d seen two days before. Amelia lifted her chin and flashed him her most charming smile.
He blinked and smiled back. “Good morning, miss. May I be of assistance?”
She offered her hand. “I am Miss Matthew. I have an appointment with Dr. Andrew Cavanaugh.”
Something flashed across his face.
Amelia tensed. Surely Andrew couldn’t have been discovered already.
“May I ask the nature of that appointment? Dr. Cavanaugh didn’t mention he was expecting you.”
“I’m interviewing to be his new assistant.” She’d come up with the excuse in the cab. Klafft had a personal assistant. Why not Andrew?
Winslow looked confounded for a moment, then recovered enough to stand. “This way, please.”
Andrew’s door was half-open. Winslow knocked on the jamb as he poked his head inside. “Dr. Cavanaugh. Your appointment is here.”
There was a confused pause from within.
Amelia tensed. She couldn’t let him say he had no appointment. She stepped around Winslow and into Andrew’s line of sight.
Andrew rose from behind the desk, a puzzled crease in his forehead.
“Dr. Cavanaugh, so lovely to see you again.” She stepped into his office and extended her hand. His eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she went on, before he could give away the ruse. He continued to stand there with his mouth hanging open. “For my interview. For the secretarial position.”
He shook himself. “Ah. Yes. Miss…”
“Matthew,” she supplied.
“Miss Matthew. Of course.” His voice was hearty and overloud. The whites showed around the edges of his eyes. He took the hand she offered and held it beat too long, as if he couldn’t remember what he was supposed to be doing.
The touch kindled a warmth in Amelia’s chest, wholly inappropriate to the moment. She’d had no time to dwell on what had happened between them the last time she was in this office, but now she felt her cheeks warming as his eyes roved over her face.
She gave his fingers a squeeze, and he started as though it were an electrical shock, tearing his gaze from hers.
He cleared his throat and stepped back. “Thank you, Winslow.”
The instant after the door closed behind the clerk, Andrew whispered, “Amelia, my god.” He took her in as if he were certain she was a mirage. “What are you doing here? Is Jonas—” He stopped, evidently seeing something in her face.
“He was alive when I left him,” she said, not trusting herself with more. “His… Someone is with him.” She went on before he could press her further. There was a stack of books sitting beside a box on his desk. “What’s this?”
He grimaced as he gestured for her to sit. “I’ve ruined everything.” He outlined the morning’s events. “I’m so sorry,” he said as he concluded. “I’m finished here at the asylum.”
Amelia reached into her bag for the list. “Then we don’t have any time to waste.”
She explained her discovery, then called out the names as Andrew found their files. Within a few minutes, they had all six lying open on the desk.
They spotted it at the same time.
“The handwriting on the commitment orders,” Amelia said.
“The same person wrote each of them.” Andrew confirmed. “I would never have noticed while they were all mixed in with the others, but once you see them together, it’s unmistakable.” He disappeared into the storage room and returned a moment later holding another file. “One of the discharges, for comparison.”
The writing was different.
Andrew looked at the six files on the desk, then back at the storage room. Amelia followed his gaze.
“I wonder how many more there are,” she said.
“Only one way to know.” Andrew’s voice was grim.
Half an hour’s work resulted in eleven more files stacked on the desk. They looked at each other for a moment, somber, before Amelia plucked a clean sheet of paper from the tray on Andrew’s desk and began writing, looking between the files and the page as she went.
“What are you doing?” Andrew asked.
“I want to see the complete list, and I want to look at the dates.” Amelia sat back when she was done, pointing at the first name on the new list. “There. That’s the earliest of the bunch.”
Andrew peered over her shoulder. “Five years ago. Harcourt wasn’t here then. So he may well not be involved after all. But thanks to me, he won’t listen if we go to him.” Andrew dropped into his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What are we going to do?”
Amelia stared at the list until the black lines blurred before her eyes, then blinked and turned away. “I don’t know.”