Page 68 of My Darling Girls

Grace’s eyes flick to Ira, then to Finn, who stands silently, his eyes set on Jo. “I can make us tea,” Grace says softly.

“When I read the letters, I got curious,” Ira continues, ignoring them. “August was sending my girls away, essentially stealing my property, and I wondered if it was to Millville. It made sense to me at that time. So I sent Hank there to investigate.”

“Was it the place?” Finn asks.

“Oh, no. I still wish to find that place.” Ira smiles at Jo through the smoke of his cigarette. “It’s been ten years since you left your hometown, but people still talk about a teacher, Josephine Lambert, who had an intense friendship with the miller’s daughter, Ruth Noll. And one night, they both left town. Everyone thought they ran away. But, a few weeks after their disappearance, the body of the teacher washed up at the shore.” Ira leans back in his seat and sighs. “Well, tell us how Ruth Noll became Josephine Lambert.”

You’ll never be me, my darling girl.

Jo’s hands shake so violently, she almost drops her Kodak. She walks to the table by the window and sets her camera down. She gazes through the glass without seeing anything.

“Jo,” Grace’s weak voice says from afar. “What’s he talking about? Who’s Ruth Noll?”

Ira chuckles. “Grace, don’t be daft.”

Jo slowly turns around. “I’m Ruth Noll.” Her voice trails off. She cannot force herself to say another word.

Grace blinks. Finn rubs his chin.

Ira throws his unfinished cigarette on the floor and grinds it with his boot. “Hank told me the townsfolk waited for a long time for Ruth’s body to wash up too. They figured both girls drowned together in the river while taking a swim. But Ruth’s body was never found.” He flips through the letters again. “People moved on. The miller drank himself to death. There was a flood next spring. But when asked, a few still remember.”

Jo looks at Grace, who regards her with haunted eyes. “It was an accident. We had an argument. I pushed her and she fell. Hit her head. It happened so fast.” It’s difficult to say the words out loud. To relive the memories that she has buried so deep, no light could ever get in. And even though the memory of Miss Lambert was locked away, it wasn’t dead like Miss Lambert herself. It was a festering, rotting wound that never could be fully healed. “I found letters in her trunk and . . . well, we looked alike. I came to Chicago, pretending to be her. August offered me what no one else could—safety, protection, stability, and most importantly, the chance of a new life away from my father, who was a violent and cruel man. I told you about my father.” Then Jo pushes herself to admit one truth she has never said out loud before. “I wouldn’t have this life had she lived.”

“She was your friend,” Grace whispers.

“We had a very close . . . friendship.” Suddenly, Jo sees herself as she was back then—twenty years old, no longer a child, but not quite a woman yet. Lonely and fearful. With no purpose, forced to endure her cruel father. And she sees Miss Lambert stepping on the riverbank and bringing light and love and kindness into Jo’s life. She thinks about the violence that followed. And death, and Miss Lambert’s stolen dreams. “I loved her, Grace.”

Ira snorts. “Never understood those female friendships.”

Grace whips around and hisses at Ira. “You sent Sally away, and she died because of you. She never told me what she was going through. Never told me about her sickness. You kept her locked up in your rotten brothel. She couldn’t see me. If she would have, maybe she’d be alive.”

Finn clears his throat, moves away from the wall. “Grace, you’re wrong. Sally was never locked up. She came to see you the day Millie got sick.” He rubs his forehead. “I thought you knew. Your mother opened the door.”

“What?” Grace stumbles as if her legs don’t support her anymore. “No one ever told me she came to see me.”

Finn shrugs. “Your mother talked to Sally, invited her in. Millie offered her tea, and Charlie gave her his Cracker Jacks. I left after that. That’s all I know.”

A wave of dizziness washes over Jo, and she inhales sharply. The pieces of the puzzle fall into place. “Finn, do you know who made the tea?”

“I think it was Gertie. I remember her putting a kettle on.”

“Mother made tea for Sally? She hated Sally. Why would she invite her in?” Grace says slowly, each word a heavy rock hitting the floor.

“Enough,” Ira growls and gets to his feet. “Finn, take Grace home.”

“Wait.” Grace moves toward Jo, shivering, clutching the box to her stomach. “Do you miss her? Your teacher?”

The memories flood unbidden. The sound of Miss Lambert’s laughter that would fill every inch of Jo’s soul. Her arms wrapped around Jo, the warmth of her. “Yes. Every single day.” As the words leave her, the gnawing sense of grief that she has experienced since the moment she walked away from Miss Lambert’s cabin floods her. Jo steps forward. “I’m sorry I never told you.”

“I hate to disrupt this tender conversation, but I’ve had enough.” Ira waves at Finn. “Take Grace home now. Make sure she’s locked up in her bedroom until the wedding day. I’ll see you at Ada’s.” He looks at Jo. “You and I have unfinished business to discuss.”

He’s going to kill her, and Grace will never leave her family. Never be free of them. Ada’s girls will never know if the Omaha refuge is safe. They’ll lose hope. Some will lose their lives. And Millie will be forever stuck in the other realm, unable to move on because she’ll never know that she drank her mother’s poisoned tea meant for Sally.

Finn puts his hand on Grace’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“Ask your mother about the tea.” Jo pushes the words out fast, one after another. “Ask her how it feels to kill her own daughter.”

Ira’s lips peel back. “Enough.” His hands curl into fists. He moves fast. One second he’s by the settee, another he’s in front of Jo, blocking her view of Grace. There’s a cruel glint in his eyes that Jo knows well. As fear, marrow deep and violent, flashes through her, she angles her body away from him and wraps her arms around her middle like she used to do a long time ago to make sure her father’s blows didn’t break her ribs.