Page 66 of My Darling Girls

Grace links her arm with Jo’s and looks out the window. “One day I’ll come back for my siblings. You’re kind and brave. I’m lucky to have you in my life.” She looks at Jo and smiles, and Jo feels like she’d do absolutely anything to keep that smile on Grace’s face.

She also feels like a fraud.

They ride in silence for a few minutes. Each of them submerged in thoughts.

“I need to stop by my studio and get August’s camera,” Jo says after a while. “I cannot leave without it.”

Grace looks back at Jo sharply. “I don’t think we have time. I don’t think it’s safe.”

“The camera is all I have left of him. I’m not leaving without it.” Jo’s hands spasm, and when she looks down, she realizes her fingers clutch her Kodak so desperately, her hands look like claws. She relaxes her grasp and looks out the window at the evening light. At the city she used to love. A shadow of foreboding wraps around her skull.

Lessons in Photography

As soon as Jo approaches her studio door, a sense of menace cuts through her chest. A certainty that they’re not alone.

Grace stands a couple feet behind Jo, body tense, muscles taut. Ready to rush inside. Jo looks over her shoulder at Grace and puts her hand up, stopping the girl. She opens her satchel, finds her key, and inserts it into the lock. Turning it slowly, she questions her every move. Could Hank be waiting for them on the other side of the door? Should they turn around and leave?

The lock clicks. With her hand on the doorknob, she waits.

Grace shifts behind her. “What’s going on?” The girl’s hoarse whisper unfolds like a peal of thunder in Jo’s ears.

Jo pushes the door open.

She takes a careful step and inhales the scent of musk and cigarettes. Fear unfurls, tightening her muscles, constricting her breath. All her senses are stretched to the limit.

How foolish she was to think that she could come back, take the camera, and leave. If only life was that simple. If only she was smarter. She should be at the train station now, and not here, in this death trap.

Jo stands at the threshold, wondering if they still have time to run.

Grace is right behind her, waiting for Jo to enter. There’s Ira’s long dark coat on the hook by the door, a black mass against the faded wallpaper. In the mirror on the wall, she catches a glimpse of her face—pale and wide eyed. Frightened, but somehow also determined. The seconds are slipping away, and she needs to save the girl.

“Grace, run,” she whispers over her shoulder. “Now.” But there’s Finn standing behind them, and Jo knows she’s lost. His hand is clamped down on Grace’s skinny shoulder, his chest pressing against Grace’s back. The girl’s eyes are two big pools of desperate blue in her bloodless face.

“Inside,” Finn says. “Step inside.” There’s a small gun in his right hand, and he waves it at Jo.

“Finn, you don’t need to do this.” Jo meets his eyes, clear like ice on the lake in winter. He nods somberly at her as if confirming her words. Then he softly pushes Grace through the door.

“Please come in,” Ira drawls from the studio. There’s a tapping sound Jo cannot place. As if a rolled newspaper is hitting a chair or a settee. But for some reason, the sound grinds on Jo’s eardrums and makes her wince. “No need to hover by the door. It’s chilly outside.” Tap. Tap. An odd, almost fleshy sound. “You, my darling girls, might catch a cold.”

Jo listens to the noises—the odd tapping, the heaviness of the words that hit the space like rocks, and a sickening calmness in Ira’s voice. It all hovers in the air like an axe about to come down on her neck.

They go to the studio—Jo leading the way—where Ira sits on the settee, with a stack of letters in his hand. The shadows stir in the corners. The menace creeps closer. The ground shifts beneath Jo’s feet. She freezes mid-step, her eyes on the letters.

“Finn.” Ira skims over Grace, his gaze sliding to the box in her hands. “Why don’t you take Grace home. Her mother’s worried.” He punctuates each word with a tap of the fingers on the letters. “But before you leave, Grace, answer me one question.” Grace meets Ira’s unblinking eyes. Her fingers wrap tighter around the box. “How well do you think you know our esteemed photographer here, Josephine Lisso?”

“Lisso?” Finn chokes out, his eyes searching Jo’s face. He has a peculiar expression, as if he’s struggling with something. A memory or an emotion. “I didn’t know,” he says with a sharp edge of vulnerability. He leans on the wall behind him, his shoulders slacking. He lowers his pistol. “I didn’t know.” Jo isn’t sure what all of this means, but his words send chills into her heart.

Ira curves a brow. “August was her husband, Finn. Why do you think I sent you to her studio on the other side of town the night Millie died? I like to keep an eye on people who are involved in my business.”

“I’m not involved in your business,” Jo cuts in.

“Oh, you certainly are.” Ira turns to Grace. “So, how well do you know Jo?”

“Well enough,” Grace says.

The acid in Jo’s stomach burns its way up her throat. “What’s this about?” She should’ve burned those letters a long time ago. Why hadn’t she?

Tap. Tap. Tap.