Chapter 9

Brooklyn, September, 1901

When she had shown up at the docks several days after he had walked her to Brooklyn, Spot had been surprised but also further intrigued. He hadn't been sure if he would see her anytime soon following their last interaction. He had no idea how long she would be in Brooklyn, nor who she happened to be staying with there, but even more than that, she had only halfheartedly entertained the deal he had presented her with. Perhaps she had been insulted, or wary of sharing more than surface information with a relative stranger. Regardless, he certainly wasn't going to seek her out.

Or at least that's what he kept telling himself.

But when he saw her standing at the entrance to the shipyard as he was just walking off from his shift, he hadn't been able to hide the pleased smirk that grew on his lips.

"Fancy meeting you here," she said, coming to stand in front of him.

He noted that her smile seemed genuine, her mood much improved from the earlier evening. And the once bright bruises along her jaw and neck had faded substantially.

"You look well," he replied genially, looking down at the green-eyed girl.

"Well enough," she quipped back.

Several quiet moments passed, as he stared at her curiously, his smirk widening when he noticed her mild discomfort as she seemed to struggle with what she wanted to say to him next.

"So," she started hesitantly, flashing her eyes at his in doubt before looking away.

"So," he mimicked teasingly, unable to hide the accompanying amused chuckle as she glared irritably back.

He didn't know what it was, but even as she stood before him, awkward and tongue-tied—traits that would have made any other woman mildly annoying in comparison—he couldn't help but be utterly captivated. The way she twisted her lips and bit the inside of her cheek, looking so damned exasperated with both him and herself—he wasn't sure exactly how to react, but a natural delight seemed to flow through him all on its own.

And he honestly didn't know whether to be irritated or confused.

"You aren't making this any easier for me, you know? I'm dreadful at introductory chatter. I never know how to go about it," she finally divulged, completely frustrated. "I'm fine with greetings, but then how much longer must we go on? Should we chat about our days so far? The weather? Is it rude for me to just jump to the things I'd like to discuss—God forbid, without warning?"

At that he outright laughed. "Jesus, Kate. You really think that right here, on the Brooklyn docks, is where you should be worrying about your etiquette?"

She sighed before cracking her own smile. "I suppose we aren't sitting for high tea at Windsor Court."

"Not last I checked, doll," he said with a playful eyeroll. "So, please, feel free to skip to the point."

He started to meander away from the place they had been standing, moving toward the shopping district near the center of town as she fell into step beside him.

"Well, I wanted to see if you were still interested in that deal you proposed at the end of our walk the other night?"

He stared back at her, eyebrows raised. "You mean about us trading questions?"

She nodded, clasping her hands behind her back as a small smile grew on her face. "With a couple of addendums, of course."

Of course, he thought somewhat irritably to himself, a catch.

But even though his hackles were slightly raised at the idea of any sort of requirements being demanded of him, he still felt intrigued and willing to see what she had in mind.

"Ok, go on. Rule number one."

She chuckled at him, shaking her head. "Um, I guess, rule number one would be that one question from you yields one answer from me and vice versa, before there's another round of questions."

Spot's eyes scanned the sky for a moment before he nodded. "Number two."

"We have to answer the questions truthfully."

At that, he shot her a look. "And how the hell are we supposed to know if we're tellin' the truth or not?"

She shrugged half-heartedly as she mused, "I suppose a blood oath under a full moon might do the trick. But if that doesn't work, there's always human sacrifice."

She quirked her head at him calmly as his mouth fell open of its own accord, utterly caught off guard by her comments. But before another moment had passed, she broke out into a full, resounding laugh—a sound so contagious that he couldn't help but eventually join in.

"I swear, the shit that comes outa your mouth," he finally muttered, pulling a cigarette from his breast pocket, striking a match on a nearby vendor booth and lighting it.

"The fact that you indulge me, even for a millisecond, thrills me to no end," she said with a warm smile that made her green eyes sparkle in the afternoon sunshine.

He grinned in turn, their gazes meeting briefly. But in the few moments that followed, Spot felt his breath catch in his chest, the noises of the market fading slowly behind him. And then it was just her, only her, standing there, looking up into his gaze as if she had been doing it her entire life—like she could keep doing it well into the future. Her eyes radiated humor and warmth, yes, but their depths held the promise for so much more—compassion, patience, fire, adoration. There were lifetimes staring back at him, tempting him with things he could not quite put into words.

But then he stepped back.

"So be honest, alright—I guess, we'll manage it," he said, looking away from her. "Rule three."

She paused, only for a beat to observe the change in his face before nodding. "Rule three, whatever is shared stays between the two of us and shall never be repeated to another soul."

"Fair enough," he said with a smirk, taking a drag off his smoke. "Anything else?"

"One more," she stated. "We have to start off with simple, less personal questions first. Then build up to the ones closest to our chests."

She stared at him purposefully, sticking her small hand out. "Do we have a deal?"

He blew a stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth, pulsing her hand firmly within his own as he tried to ignore the jolt that singed through his body. "Deal."

Thus, within the following weeks, a type of routine developed surrounding the aforementioned contract the two had struck. Most days after finishing his shift, Spot would head off the docks to find Kate waiting for him, her skirts swinging absentmindedly as a smile grew on her face. Then the two would either meander by the river if the weather was nice enough, complete their weekly shopping from the vendors in the square, or find a pub to share a meal and a drink. The early days were mostly spent exploring the ins and outs of all different sorts of what Kate called "introductory" questions and answers. Nothing too prying, but still necessary information, nonetheless.

If anything, her first question had amused him greatly.

"You wanna know my given name?"

She shot him an incredulous look. "Of course I do! I can't imagine your mother holding her newborn son and settling on the name 'Spot'."

"Well haven't you heard," he replied with a smirk. "Legend has it, I just appeared on the docks in Brooklyn one day, like the city itself birthed me."

"Ridiculous," she scoffed, rolling her eyes and laughing.

"Believe me, I feel the same way," he said with a snort. "Besides, the truth's way less interesting."

Kate stared at him, her eyes urging him to finally answer the question. And so he shrugged, putting a hand to his chest and announcing, "Thomas Conlon at your service."

She stared up for a moment in thought, and then met his gaze, smiling. "Now that is a name worthy of a legend."

His initial questions had more centered around her status in Brooklyn, though he kept his inquiries very superficial—about how long she would be there, where she was staying, and what contacts she had in the borough. But Kate, being the clever girl she was, managed to find the thin leeway he had implicitly allotted and somehow answered the questions without giving any real information away.

All she would say on the topic was that she was "looking to make a more permanent move to Brooklyn if something her friend had in the works came through."

So he moved on to inquiries about her parents, planning on figuring out the other things on his own, if need be. And, shockingly, her family was a topic that yielded a plethora of very revealing truths concerning the somewhat mysterious green-eyed girl.

She spoke freely about her mother Effie, the beautiful Italian heiress that had thrown it all away to make a life with Edward, a poor Irish factory worker with nothing more to give her than his adoration and name. And though the story seemed a romance fit for a novel, Kate's telling held no such starry-eyed twittering. If anything, Spot noticed the restraint she used to hold back her disappointment and perhaps even disgust. She thought her mother foolish and selfish, and her father naive and shallow. Because, according to her, that was all their flimsy life had been built on. And when that's all there is, nothing decent can grow henceforth.

"There is no such thing as love at first sight," she said almost to herself as she took a swig from her glass of whiskey. "Most of the time any kind of long-lasting affection is just fodder for fairy-tales."

Spot nodded knowingly in response. And though he whole-heartedly agreed with her summation, he was somewhat surprised—and oddly disappointed—to hear Kate of all people say it with such conviction.

"I would have taken you for a romantic," he said quietly as they exited the pub for the evening, an almost sad smile on his face.

"Well, you would have been wrong," she asserted solidly back.

"I guess I have a lot more questions that need answering then."

She smiled coyly up at him. "Too bad it's not your turn."

Brooklyn, November, 1903

Spot Conlon was not known for his sentimentality. He was not one to ruminate about past events, or latch onto long-standing feelings or regrets. He very rarely kept close contact with those in his life, and only a handful of people actually felt comfortable calling him friend. No woman had lain in his bed for longer than a few nights, let alone stuck around long enough to catch a glimpse of whatever heart lay unavailable, but beating, within his chest.

He was handsome, smart, and completely detached. So what need did a man like him have with what he considered superfluous, emotional attachments?

Before he met Katherine Moore, he thought he had no need for any of it. After though—there were too many gaping holes to count.

But now, even his sincerest requests seemed to fall on deaf ears. Her body was healing, the bruises slowly fading, the cuts starting to lighten, and the bones mending themselves, but Kate's face remained the same.

Hopeless, broken, and lost.

She refused to eat, barely drank any water, and wouldn't speak more than one word at a time. All she would do was accept her twice daily dose of laudanum before staring blankly up at the ceiling.

The girl lying in his bed day after day, silently and stiffly, was a stranger to him. And every day she maintained her fading existence, the hole in Spot's chest tore even wider open, nearly bringing him to his knees in guilt and grief.

"She'll come around, Thomas. This is a process. It will take time."

Spot felt like he had heard that phrase nearly a hundred times a day since Kate had started living with he and Mary. But it had been three weeks and he had seen very little improvement. What he could see was the fondness that had begun to build in Mary's eyes as she cared for the girl, chattering about the room, checking on her and doting on her every move while Spot went off to his shift each day. The quiet "thank yous" and kind looks that Kate spared in turn did not go unnoticed.

But neither did her silence at his presence and care. He slept next to her on the floor every night. Sometimes when she dozed fitfully, he would read to her from books he knew she liked. He brought home food that he knew to be her favorite, and flowers to brighten the room. But all was met with silence and avoidance.

He had even gone so far as to confront her at the start of the fourth week, early one morning when he offered her food.

"Kate, you have to eat," he said sternly, his stare boring down into her empty gaze.

And instead of the silence he was expecting in return, he was shocked to hear a raspy, "Why?"

His eyes widened, momentarily processing the fact that she had responded before countering, "Because it will help you heal faster. It will make you feel better."

Kate sighed, pushing herself up somewhat painfully to readjust into her pillow. "No, I mean why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" he asked softly, still unsure what she was getting at.

She raised her good hand and motioned weakly around the room, looking back toward him. "This. All this. Why am I here?"

"Because I'm taking care of you, Kate," he said automatically.

But his answer seemed to jolt her painfully. Her eyes squeezed closed, a tremor passing through her body. He made a move toward her, but she put her hand up as if to halt him.

"No," she whispered, her eyes still tightly shut as a tear slowly traveled from the corner of her eye down her cheek. "I don't trust your care. I—I don't want it."

His chest contracted with hurt at her statement, all of his efforts thus far clearly meaning nothing to her. But he quickly tempered himself when her eyes opened again, shining with more unshed tears. A reminder of just how much heartache he had added to the list of other tragedies she had suffered.

So he took a deep breath and exhaled. "What do you want me to do, Kate?"

It was an honest question and he hoped that she saw the sincerity in his eyes and the openness in his tone. She studied his face for a few moments before lying back to stare forlornly at the ceiling.

"I want you to let me die," she whispered, not looking at him.

Spot felt a lump form in his throat as he struggled to maintain his composure. Her request was stated simply, directly, as if asking for a glass of water. But he shook his head, not able to stomach her words. "Well, I'm not gonna do that. So you can just get that fuckin' thought out your head right now."

"Then I want to forget," she countered quietly.

He frowned, an even deeper worry filling him. "That medicine ain't a cure to what's eatin' you inside, Kate. It won't make it go away forever. And once the potency wears off, it'll all come rushin' to the front at full speed."

Several more tears spilled onto her cheeks as she muttered, "I'll take as long as it'll give me."