Chapter 20

Brooklyn, February, 1903

Spot Conlon was out for blood.

For three days now, he had barely been able to contain the powerful rage coursing through his veins. But to unleash it on just any unsuspecting soul unfortunate enough to cross his path would not do. Not this time. Because this particular cathartic release demanded something very specific—an actual confrontation with the culprit at hand.

And so, he had silently white-knuckled any feelings of ire, avoiding interactions with even those closest to him, until he could come fully undone on the one person who had created this unholy fucking mess in the first place.

Katherine Moore.

The only problem was, he couldn't seem to find her anywhere.

Ironically, she had been the reason for his ill-fated trek into Manhattan several days prior. A brief visit that had started as a concerned attempt to locate the girl he had not seen hide nor hair of in almost two weeks. But it had ended in a wholly unexpected confrontation with one of his oldest Manhattan friends, Jack Sullivan.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, Conlon?"

Jack's voice rang painfully through Spot's muddled thoughts, the twisted anger and betrayal in his friend's eyes still making his stomach clench in sickness. He had been so confused, so taken aback by Jack's call-out that night, that he had only been able to stand there in honest shock.

Until Jack had lunged at him.

"What the fuck, Sullivan?!" Spot had sputtered, having just barely managed to throw the Manhattaner off him in time. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Don't play fuckin' dumb, Conlon. At least own up to your part in this!" Jack hissed, as he righted himself, pushing his long hair out of his eyes.

But Spot only stared on in utter confoundment, noting the growing number of curious eyes peering at the pair from all corners of the dimly lit bar.

"She comes here, ends things with me after all this time with nothin' else to say about it. But I ain't stupid," Jack continued angrily. "She didn't have to say a goddamn word for me to know what it's all about. Shit, I coulda told you months ago. You think I didn't know? That I didn't see what was goin' on between the two a' you?"

Spot had felt like the wind had been knocked out of him as he stood there trying to process Jack's numerous, convoluted accusations. But the only thing that seemed clear to the Brooklynite was that Kate had not only been in Manhattan, but she had also been making fucking house calls while she was there.

It was out of character for her to be sure, but he had no other way of explaining the explosion he had witnessed with Jack. Or that she had yet to turn up in the days following. And there was always the fact that the last time they had been in the same room together, their discussion of sorts had ended with her throwing a pint glass so hard at his head that it had crashed into tiny pieces against the wall behind him.

"If you wanted to end things with me, you could have just told me. Instead of inviting me here to ignore me all night and make passes at other girls."

Spot could still see the hurt reflecting unabashedly in Kate's bright eyes when he had turned from his overtly flirtatious conversation with a young seamstress the moment before. And a small part of him ached at the pain he knew he had just caused her. But at the same time, that's exactly what he had wanted.

For her to hurt. To feel uncomfortable and unsteady—unsure of her footing in all the things she was so convinced of, that she knew to be true.

Because that's exactly what she had done to him.

For months after that night in November, he had felt as if he were going fucking mad—vacillating between the disgust that it was she who had caused these horrendously vulnerable feelings within his stomach and chest, and the blatant want to dive even deeper with her.

But he hadn't needed to explain himself to her—to anyone for that matter. And so, he had grasped her elbow harshly, pulling her to the side, hating himself for wanting to curse her and kiss her within the same breath.

"I don't owe you a fuckin' explanation for anything, you understand? Because we—you an' me? We're nothin. Nothin' at all. So, if I want to talk to, kiss, or bring home any a' these women here tonight that ain't you, that ain't any concern of yours."

He had been more than a little drunk at that point in the evening and had immediately recognized every single word he had growled as the lie that it was. But he had maintained his stern façade anyway, even as he had seen the tears form in her eyes.

Her voice, however, had been venomous. "I'm glad that's sorted. No need to concern yourself with me ever again. Go to hell, Conlon."

And he had found himself flinching, both from her cold words and the shattering glass behind him as he had watched her walk away.

He had assumed that this spat—much like all the others that had come before—would follow the same methodical cycle that he and Kate's relationship had now become. They would each stew sullenly for several days before the guilty party came forward to apologize and smooth things over. But, six days following the event, when his turn came to play the culpable part, he found that the script had suddenly changed.

He had shown up to Kate and Julia's tenement in possession of a much better headspace and a second-hand book he had picked up for Kate as a peace offering. But he had been shocked to find that their neighbors had seen neither girl for the entire week up to that point. And the following evening, when he had finally been able to catch James between jobs, the bespectacled man had confirmed their absence, but could not offer any other information regarding it.

So, Spot had requested aid from some of his own newsie friends—boys that had once acted as lookouts and spies when he had reigned, collectively referred to as "birds" for the anonymity it allowed. And within three days he had his answer. Kate had been seen out and about in Manhattan.

But all that had been waiting there for him was a trap. Though he had never known Kate to be the petty, conniving sort, the fact that she had purposefully created unnecessary conflict between he and one of his oldest friends was proof enough that she was more than capable of such things.

And he planned on making sure she knew exactly what he thought of girls with those sorts of traits.

If only he could pin her down in one spot. He had never really considered the fact that Kate had an uncanny ability to make herself scarce when the occasion called for it. She possessed a knowledge of almost all the boroughs that put Spot's to shame—except for Brooklyn of course. Beyond that though, she had a way of finding nooks and crannies that no one would think to look twice at.

Of blending into both shadows and sunlight.

So, by the time he had returned home from Manhattan, he had decided that he would wait for Kate to come to him. Because throughout the almost two years he had known her, she had always come back.

But after three full days of waiting, the only contact he managed to secure was from a convoluted and somewhat unexpected source, causing his almost unmanageable anger to subside into something far more troubling.

Fear.

Spot felt Rummy's presence before he saw the tall boy approach as he sat on a crate peering out into the sunset over the East River. He inhaled slowly from his cigarette, waiting for his friend to announce himself and his purpose.

"Don't think there's a view anywhere else in the city like this."

Spot nodded as he exhaled, still not turning toward Rummy. He heard his clicking boots along the wood as the dark-haired boy walked nearer to him, finally leaning his broad back next to where Spot's legs hung down. He spared a quick glance at his oldest friend, noting the solemn way his face was set, and the clear hesitation in his stance.

Something was wrong.

"You seen your girl yet, Conlon?"

Spot's face reflected shock as he met Rummy's concerned gaze. "No. Figured she'd show up eventually like she usually does. Why?"

His eyes narrowed toward Rummy as he saw his friend's stare fall deeper into worry. "Shit."

Spot took one last puff off his cigarette before he flicked it into the distance, pushing himself to standing. "What the hell is goin' on, Rummy?"

Rummy sighed, pulling a crumpled scrap of paper out of his pocket. "I got this note an hour ago. Some kid slipped it under the door to my room, but I couldn't catch him quick enough to ask any more questions. I think it's from Julia."

Spot stared apprehensively toward his friend's concerned face as he took the paper from his outstretched hand, unfolding the wrinkled page to reveal a short, scrawled note.

W,

Don't reach out. Arranged something new. Need you with sunshine.

Give this to Brooklyn. Eyes on the paper. River is best route.

-J

Spot stared silently at the note for several minutes, uncertain of what he was reading. Although brief, it seemed to be saying far more than the few words written on the page—Spot just wasn't sure he understood what that more was.

His eyes traveled back to meet Rummy's matching puzzled stare. "Do you know what Julia's tryin' to tell you?"

Rummy shrugged, looking uncharacteristically exasperated. "I'm really at a loss here. All I know is that she calls Kate sunshine, so that's obviously who she's askin' me to look out for. But as for the rest of it….." Rummy sighed, shaking his head. "I got nothin'. Just a bad feelin' in my gut."

And as he reread the note in his hand several times more, a feeling of dread passed over Spot as well—a sensation so intense that he was brought roughly back to a strange moment in his childhood.

The visuals were somewhat random and abrupt—fleeting images and feelings of long ago. He saw his mother, auburn-haired beauty that she was, holding a teacup and saucer gracefully in her lap while she smiled toward Mary. The small wooden horse on the floor that flashed through his mind next signaled that he must have been very young, no more than four. The rest of the scene was hazy, barely recognizable, but the voices and words for those few seconds were so clear.

"…a real gentleman, Mary….the children will finally have a father…finally have a real family."

Mary's bright eyes suddenly darkened as she shook her head, steadying herself for a moment.

"What is it?" his mother asked, concerned, reaching out for Mary's hand.

But Mary's voice seemed far away, distracted and strange as she paused several moments before saying, "It's just—just a strange feeling. Like my grandmother used to say. That chill—as if someone walked over my grave."

And Spot felt his body go cold and still even as he heard himself saying, "She'll show up. She always does. I mean, she was just in 'Hattan a few days ago stirrin' shit up with Jack. So, she's bound to make an appearance any day now. And when she does, she can explain what the hell's goin on with all this too."

Spot didn't know why he was so quick to ignore that frightening pulse in his body—the chill that went down his spine each time he glanced at the note in his hands. But for some reason, he wouldn't allow his mind to go there—to even touch on that dark inkling. It was as if his form could not help but aggressively reject the feeling, pushing him in any direction opposite. Perhaps because it was a silly notion, and Spot Conlon was not one to feed into superstition.

Or because this wasn't the first time he had known in his bones that something wasn't right.

Rummy looked as if he wanted to counter Spot's solution, but he stopped himself, saying instead, "Yeah, alright. If that's what you think."

Spot nodded, but just as Rummy turned to go, Spot found himself calling, "Keep the birds on the lookout for her, wouldja?"

Rummy's features softened somewhat in the dusk. "Yeah, a' course."

But hours after his friend had left, Spot still sat motionlessly on the dock, moonlight glimmering eerily upon the water before him, his mind filtering through the note that still lay open in his hand. Because something—something was there. And he may not have been superstitious, but he sure as shit didn't believe in the conveniency of coincidence either.

He could have been wrong, maybe even crazy, but the more he stared down at the words on the paper— the letters mixing in strange combinations—he almost swore that Julia had meant to put her sentences in that specific order.

Because after a few hours, all his eyes would settle on was the capital letter at the beginning of each sentence, all coming together to form a different word.

DANGER.