Page 46 of My Darling Girls

Jo closes her eyes and lets herself drift between the worlds, not here and not quite there, the remnants of the opium daze softening the edges of her reality. The reality she isn’t ready to fully enter. She prefers this suspension in the in-between. She can stay here for a long time. After all, she doesn’t have anything else to do. Grace isn’t coming today, and Jo can stay in bed as long as she wants. With every breath, the memories of her past life turn into blurry images, the sharpness of facial features melting away. Like an old photograph that was exposed to the sun for many years.

There is a rustle in a corner of her room, and the air shifts, getting colder.

She is not alone.

The realization makes her shiver, for it’s powerful and frosty like the river. With an effort that feels like lifting a cement block off the floor, she forces herself to move her heavy eyelids. The yellow wallpaper with the pattern of calla lilies greets her. Her gaze shifts to the window, and for a fraction of a second, she watches gray clouds float across the sky.

Another rustle.

Jo slowly turns her pounding head. A cadence of suppressed terror intensifies, as she is gazing into a void rather than a shadow in the corner. A tall, lean frame sits in the armchair by Jo’s vanity, clad in a navy blue jacket. A dark derby hat placed on one knee. Jo squints, trying to focus on the face.

The familiar scent floats to Jo. A trace of musk mixed with some spice and tobacco, reminding her of Ada’s Dollhouse. “Here you are. Took you a while. I started to worry.” The figure leans forward, and the face comes into view. “Hello, Josephine.”

A scream gets stuck in her throat. Clutching the threadbare blanket, Jo slowly sits up in her bed. “Ira,” she croaks. Her first thought is to run, get out of the house and disappear into the busy streets. “What are you doing here?” She holds her breath, her whole body frozen stiff because she knows if she tries to run, she won’t get far.

He settles deeper into his chair. A smooth, gliding movement of a snake. “You don’t sound terribly excited to see me.” The shadows ripple around him, the blackness slipping into her room.

Jo slowly swings her legs over the side of her bed. The room swims. “I don’t like surprises.” Her voice is low, creaky from sleep. She closes her eyes to steady herself. How long has he been sitting here, watching her? Goose bumps spring up on her skin, and she opens her eyes. “What can I do for you?” She chooses her words carefully, the same way someone might talk to a madman.

Ira takes out a silver box, pulls a cigarette out. “I think my visit is long overdue.” He lights the cigarette and sticks it in the corner of his mouth. A second later he blows out smoke in her direction. He offers his box to Jo, who shakes her head. “You’ve been calling Millie’s name in your sleep.”

Shoulders slumped, she grips the blanket tighter. “I dream about Millie sometimes. Ever since that night. That poor girl. To die at such a young age. It must be awfully hard on the family, especially Gertrude.”

He grimaces. “It was sickness.” He fixes his eyes on Jo and looks her up and down with eyes sharp enough to cut ice. “We might never know what it was.”

Jo clears her throat. “It could’ve been poison.”

“Who would want to poison a fifteen-year-old girl?”

A roll of thunder outside punctuates his question.

“Have you considered the possibility the poison was not meant for Millie?”

He looks at her for a long minute, then says, “What do you mean?”

Staring at the floor, Jo knots her hair at the nape of her neck into a low bun. “Perhaps a business rival?” She looks up at Ira. “I’ll have that cigarette.”

He opens the silver box, takes out a cigarette, brows drawn. “I considered a lot of possibilities.” He gives her a cigarette and a box of matches, then leans back into the chair, watching her light up. “No matter. I want you to stop associating with my family. Stop asking about Millie. Nothing good will come of it. You hear me?”

A memory of the man with skin removed springs to Jo’s mind, and she imagines Ira pulling out a knife with a curved blade, pinning her down to the bed with one hand, and making a cut on her skin with the other. A violent jerk, and he peels a patch of her skin away, revealing her muscles and veins and fat. The image is so vivid, Jo opens her mouth to scream, but instead she whispers, “Yes.” This is what he expects her to do. To obey.

“I hear you enjoy Grace’s visits.” He pulls on his cigarette. “Tell me, Jo. Why on earth would you teach her photography?”

Her heart sinks. Finn must’ve told him.

Jo considers her possible answers. I teach her photography because she wants to be able to stand on her own two feet when she leaves her family—too dangerous. Stupid, even. Grace needs a place to grieve her sister—too obvious of a lie. She settles on a half-truth. “Grace is lonely after Millie’s death. She needs a friend. Someone she can talk to about her feelings. So we drink tea, and I help her process her grief. In return, she helps me with my business.”

He laughs, blows a plume of smoke at Jo. “Tea. Sure. While you were asleep, I walked around. You made this place your own. I barely recognized it. I understand why you moved away from State Street. Too big. Too expensive. Not yours. Here, though . . . there’s almost nothing of August left in this place. I’ll admit, it has a particular charm. He really loved wildflowers. How long’s it been since he died?”

She pulls on her cigarette. The smoke gets stuck in her throat, and she coughs. “A year.”

He nods.

“August worked for you.” Another nervous pull. She exhales the smoke slowly, watching it curl and glide in the space between them. “I found the pictures of the girls he took.”

“You didn’t know?”

She shakes her head.