Page 26 of My Darling Girls

Grace gives him a half shrug.

“How often do you go there?” he presses on. “Where do you get money to pay for it?”

“Finn.” Jo touches his shoulder lightly. “Let her be.”

Grace sets her mug on the table and slowly gets to her feet. For a brief moment, she catches Jo’s eye, and an understanding passes between them. “I’ll bring your shawl back tomorrow. Thank you for the tea.” She turns to Finn. “Don’t worry about me. I won’t go there anymore.” She rolls her shoulders. “Why don’t you thank Jo appropriately.” She gives him a pointed look. “I’ll wait for you in the front room.”

When she leaves the kitchen, Finn drops into the chair where Grace was sitting seconds ago. He stares into Grace’s cup, thoughtful and frustrated. Absentmindedly, he picks up a spoon and stirs the tea as if he’s about to drink it. “When Mei from the laundry found me and told me about Grace, I felt like a barrel of ice water was dumped on me.” The anger in his voice is replaced by anguish.

“I understand,” Jo says, not sure if she really does. But she feels like she needs to say something to console him.

He looks at her with an unflinching stare, and Jo feels a blast of adrenaline surge through her bloodstream. “But while rushing over here, I kept thinking about you and not Grace. And that made me even angrier.” He leans back into the chair, his gaze never leaving her face. “I was supposed to worry about my niece who was found in the opium den. Drugged out of her mind and alone. Instead, all I could think about was you.”

She waits for him to continue, but when he doesn’t, she takes the bait. “What were you thinking?”

“Mostly, I was wondering why you were there, in Zhang’s place. So, instead of going right to your studio and taking Grace home, I went to see Old Zhang.”

Well, there it is—a moment when Jo is caught in a web of her own making. Her stomach full of nerves, she pours herself a cup of tea and stirs sugar with the same spoon as Finn.

“I know, Jo.” He searches her face as if seeing her for the first time. “I know why you sleep longer than anyone I know.”

“Why does it matter to you?” she asks softly, tipping her cup toward him. His face is tired, and yet, despite the dull shadows under his eyes, he’s still beautiful. “My life shouldn’t be of your concern.”

“But it is.” His voice is hoarse. His eyes are full of thunder, and yet there’s something sad in them too. “You caused me a lot of trouble with Ira. You lied. You promised Gertie you’d have Millie’s pictures for the funeral, and you didn’t deliver. And now you found Grace and brought her here.” He puts the mug to his lips and takes a sip. Jo watches his full lips as they close around the rim of the cup. “You should’ve taken Grace home. I warned you not to get in our way.” There’s reproach in his tone, as if he’s trying to lecture her about the dangers of being involved with one of the deadliest gangs in Chicago.

She looks at him over her cup, and he looks back at her over his. His gaze should feel dangerous, but instead it feels intoxicatingly intimate. “Grace didn’t want to go home. Considering what you do, I’m not surprised. I wouldn’t want to be around a family like yours.” She pauses. There is a question, like a thorn, that has been burrowing under her skin since the day she took Millie’s pictures. Since the day she saw the man sitting in a puddle of his own blood.

Finn gives her a sharp smirk. “If you want to ask, go ahead and ask.”

“Have you tortured that man?”

A flash of vulnerability in his face. “Are you going to believe me if I say no? If I say I’ve never tortured anyone?” His voice is calm, almost resolute, but she picks up on a strain underneath his bluster. “I was raised by Ira. Violence runs in his blood.”

“But not yours?”

“I’ve done things that haunt me every night. I’ve also seen things done to people that I’ll never be able to purge from my mind. That’s my life, Jo. But I’m not Ira.”

“I believe you.” Maybe it’s the vulnerability in him mixed with regret or the way he admitted to crimes—openly and with no hesitation—but something moves her in a way she hadn’t been moved before. “I know violence, Finn. I was raised by a father who couldn’t keep his fists to himself.”

“You’re not frightened.” He leans over the table, his forearms swelling with muscles. His face is inches away from hers.

“I’m not frightened of you.” It’s the truth, at least in this moment, and somehow, the unspoken tension between them loses its sharp edge. “Don’t worry about me. Worry about Grace. When she was half conscious back in the den, she told me Millie was murdered.”

Finn slams his palm on the table. Jo jumps. Teacups rattle. Cupboards shake. Finn’s voice drops to a half whisper when he says, “Stop it.” His eyes are full of agony, like he’s in physical pain. “We’ve talked about it.”

Jo picks up her cup. Drinks the lukewarm liquid. Finn’s eyes drift down to her throat and remain there for a few seconds. “I think you know something isn’t right with Millie’s death. Something’s amiss. And then there’s another thing that’s constantly on my mind. You want to know what that is, Finn?” When he looks up at her, his face is stark.

She raises her eyebrow.

“Tell me.”

“What is it that frightens you so much that you refuse to see the obvious?”

Interlude: The Old Man

Three weeks ago

The brothers rush into the studio.