Page 6 of My Darling Girls

“Long enough.” She tries to purge the image of August from her mind. His broad shoulders stooped over the chemicals in the darkroom. His smile as he watched images appear on paper slowly like islands in the fog of the sea. Her memories of him are uneven and disconnected moments caught in time and space. “I took over my husband’s business when he died a year ago.” She turns her head toward Finn. “I know what I’m doing, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I’ve never met a woman photographer. That’s why I asked,” he says, a defensive note in his voice.

“How many photographers have you met?”

“Two, including you.”

“The other photographer couldn’t come tonight?”

“He left the business.”

Jo clutches her camera bag tighter. There was a time when she wanted to lock up her studio and walk away from it. The business is difficult. Finding customers seems impossible at times. Especially those who are alive and well. But there is an abundance of the dead who need to be photographed. If not for the voices in her head, she wouldn’t mind. The dead pay better money.

Closing her eyes, she takes a long breath and slumps against the seat, leaning her head back. Something tells her she’s safer in the hansom than alone in her studio.

She drifts away.

The Dead Girl

A hand on her shoulder. A slight shake.

“Jo.” A familiar voice pierces through the thickness in her head. “We’re here.”

She opens her eyes.

The street in front of her is lifeless, framed by dark brick and stone buildings. Finn is holding the door for her, his hand outstretched to help her out of the hansom. She takes his hand and hops down. There are a few steps leading to the front door. The door itself is heavy and black, outlined by the red brick wall. It opens as soon as they ascend the stairs.

“Finn,” a man’s voice says from the shadows. “Finally. She’s starting to smell.”

They are met by a lean man in a striped suit almost identical to the one worn by the young man at her side. The man glances at Jo over Finn’s shoulder. “Did you fetch a photographer?” He stands tall and erect, like a guard at the threshold to hell. His eyes are small but watchful. A heavy, musky odor mixed with tobacco floats to Jo.

The wave of recognition crashes over her like an ice-cold tidal wave. She’d seen this man’s pictures in The Chicago Daily News. She remembers one of the photographs where his right arm was thrown around the chief of police. Both men were smiling, but the chubby, short chief of police looked small and insignificant, his smile strained. A prisoner in his own city. The man who now stands in front of her looks exactly the same as the man in the photo—towering and arrogant, with eyes reflecting nothing but echoes of violence. Tonight he has bags under his eyes, and there are deep lines carved into his cheeks.

Her stomach churning, Jo inches away, but when Finn gives her a puzzled look, she stops.

“Jo, meet Ira, my uncle. He isn’t known for manners.” Finn steps aside, and Ira assesses Jo’s camera bag, his eyebrows slowly creeping onto his forehead. The longer he looks, the more Jo feels on display—the latest curiosity to be appraised and questioned.

A year ago, when she emerged from her grief, when she picked up her camera, she threw herself into the cruel and strange world of men. Where—with the great confidence only men possess—they question every single click of her camera. Every photo she develops in the darkroom. Every dollar she earns. But Ira’s silent evaluation is so much more than a regular assessment of her skills. The head of the Snakes is deciding if he’ll let her step inside his lair.

“Did she forget to bring a camera?” Only talking to Finn, pretending she doesn’t exist. The arrogance mixed with suspicion.

“It’s in the bag,” Jo says. “She didn’t forget anything.” Her mouth feels dry. Her tongue scrapes against the roof of her mouth.

“A camera that fits into a bag. That’s new,” Ira says.

Jo doesn’t reply, and there is a moment of hesitation on both men’s faces. Ira’s probably considering showing her the door, maybe throwing her into the river. Finn must be questioning his decision to drag her through the city to his sister’s house. It doesn’t really matter what these men think. Or who these men are. She’s got the money, and she’s here to do her job. Jo rolls her shoulders and lifts her chin higher.

Ira snorts, the loud and obnoxious sound of a man who’s willing to consider but might not be willing to concede. “I assume you know how to work your tiny camera?” This is the sort of question Jo hates. She has heard it too many times. From too many men.

“I know enough to take pictures of a dead girl.” The words are out of her mouth before she thinks better of them. The air around her acquires an odd electricity, a slight tremble. What if they turn her away? What if they demand their money back? But most importantly, what if they kill her? The hair on her arms stands up, and she wills herself to stop talking.

Ira winces, his jaw clenching. He looks between Finn and Jo and impatiently points at the house. “Well, then, come inside.” Ira’s nostrils are flaring so wide, Jo can see dark, dense hair inside, a forest. “She fucks this up, Finn, you’ll clean up.” Shaking his head, Ira turns on his heels and disappears into the house.

“Pay no attention. My uncle can be very unpleasant,” Finn says, sounding amused rather than concerned. He holds the door for her, and Jo’s pulse spikes. She’s about to enter the house of the notorious crime family. What will she see? What will she experience? Lips slightly parted, she follows Finn inside.

“He ain’t that bad usually. Millie’s passing affected us all.” His eyes gleam with unshed tears. “You won’t have to deal with him. I’ll make sure of it. Stay by my side.” He nods at a heavy-boned woman down the hall who’s talking to three men in dark suits. One of them gestures frantically, pointing somewhere down the narrow hallway. A knife in the man’s hand has a curved blade, and Jo’s pulse starts to race. She shouldn’t be here.

“Finn, are you sure . . .” Jo starts, shifting her weight from one foot to another, preparing herself for an exit.