Nina flicked her razor, and for once Ian was glad to see it.
They were spilling out of the car before it even stopped moving in front of the brownstone—and were greeted by the sight of an open door and an empty house.
Chapter 51
Jordan
September 1950
Boston
Hurry up, Ruth, Jordan prayed.
Her sister was finally out of her bath, calling “Can I get strawberry ice cream?” down the stairs as she trailed off towel wrapped to her room. Jordan couldn’t rush her without looking suspicious, and she couldn’t take another moment keeping her guard up with Anneliese, so she busied herself first in leashing up Taro—Jordan was no more leaving her dog in this house than her sister—and then muttered about getting something in the darkroom. “Go tear up any pictures you took of that young man,” Anneliese advised. “It will make you feel better!”
Once down in the darkroom Jordan sagged against the door, realizing she was sweating as though she’d run a race. “Calm down, J. Bryde. Stay cool—” she told herself as she rummaged for a rag to pat her face. Where are you going to go? The thought hammered. Where are you going to take Ruth?
Back to Tony’s apartment for some answers. That was a start.
She turned and nearly leaped out of her skin. Anneliese was standing at the top of the darkroom stairs, looking down with her warm smile. She’d made no sound at all.
“Anna, you startled me!” Jordan smiled, heart nearly leaping out of her chest. “Is Ruth ready?”
“Tying her shoes.”
“I can’t remember when you were last down here.”
“It’s always seemed very much your sanctum.” Anneliese looked around at the equipment, the walls, the lights. She had her pocketbook over her arm. “I was thinking I’d come with you girls. It’s been a long time since I had an ice cream cone.”
“I thought you had to finish that skirt you were running up on the Singer.” Jordan kept her smile in place.
“Hemming can always wait.”
“Are you sure? I could bring a cone back for you—” Jordan cut herself off. Too suspicious to keep throwing up objections. “You know what, never mind. Anything I bring you will just melt in this sun. Come with us.” She would sneak Ruth out when they got back.
“I’ll just get my hat.” But Anneliese didn’t move, just stood looking thoughtful. “You know I went to the bank this morning? Miss Fenton said you were asking about the savings accounts.”
Jordan kept her tone normal, relaxed. “I know you say there’s no need to worry about money, but I still do. It was a relief to hear about that extra insurance policy.”
“Miss Fenton said you looked a bit upset.”
“I got a whiff of Dad’s aftershave suddenly—one of the cashiers wearing the same brand. You know how it is . . . I left quickly before I started bawling.”
“Mmm. Well, that sounds reasonable.” Anneliese looked at the railing under her hand. “Do you know any tall Englishmen, Jordan? A man asking questions?”
“What? No, I told you that already.” Jordan’s heart started to speed. “Weeks ago.”
“I know.” Anneliese sounded apologetic. “But there is one, isn’t there? Kolb was quite firm about that. He also seems to think he’s been followed, and I was inclined to blame such paranoia on his liking for the bottle, but perhaps not. Then you turn up at the bank asking about my savings accounts, and here you are looking upset about a boyfriend, and you explain it all very nicely, Jordan, but it makes me uneasy. It really does.”
“Why would it?” Jordan made herself look up, give a puzzled smile.
“Because when you’ve lived through a war,” Anneliese said, “when you’ve been hunted, you pay attention to any little things out of the ordinary. However nicely they’re explained away, they still . . . ping.”
The silence fell between them as dark and heavy as lake water. Jordan stood, hands behind her gripping the edge of the worktable. Anneliese stood in her crisp black dress and dark chignon and perfectly painted lips. Jordan couldn’t think what to do, except to look confused and innocent. Her heart hammered.
“Scheisse.” Anneliese sighed. Setting her pocketbook down, she reached into it and pulled out a pistol in one firm, expert hand, and Jordan’s mind went white with terror as a shot crashed out.
THE METAL TRAY at Jordan’s right spun off the table in a clatter, even as she flinched back with a choked scream. It took her a moment to realize she hadn’t been hurt. “Let’s talk honestly now,” Anneliese said, matter-of-fact.
Jordan’s knees were pudding. She looked at Anneliese, at the pistol in her hand, and wanted to scream, but in this thick-walled space set below the ground, no one on the street was going to hear. She doubted anyone had heard the shot either. She opened her mouth.
“Whatever you’re about to say, it had better not be a lie,” Anneliese said. “I don’t want to shoot you, Jordan, but I will if I have to.”
“I believe you,” Jordan said in a thin voice. “You murdered Ruth’s mother in cold blood for her passport, you murdered a young English POW by a lake, and you murdered six Jewish children after feeding them a meal, so no, I don’t think you’ll hesitate to kill me.”
She expected Anneliese to deny it—weep, protest innocence, flow gently with emotion the way she had that Thanksgiving when she looked at the photograph of her SS lover and managed to convince Dan McBride and Jordan both that it was her father. But Anneliese merely moved down the staircase into the darkroom with a sigh. “I see you’ve learned a few things.”
Jordan found herself trembling. “What are you?” She couldn’t stop herself from asking the question, the great cry that had taken root in her mind since realizing the truth of it all . . . and even outside that primal cry was the cooler speculation: If I can distract her, maybe I can get away. Or maybe someone will come. It was not much of a hope, but staring down the barrel of a pistol, a slim chance looked better than none. “How could you do such things?”
Anneliese didn’t answer. She just sighed again, a sound so mortally exhausted it seemed to have been dragged from the soles of her feet, and sat down on the edge of the rumpled darkroom cot. “I’m so tired of running . . .” Looking at Jordan, her mouth trembled. “Why couldn’t you leave it alone?”
“Why couldn’t—” Jordan pushed away from the table, only to freeze as the pistol’s barrel came up.
“Sit down on the floor. Sit on your hands.” Just like that, the tremble was gone. Anneliese’s voice was weary, but her hand was steady.
Jordan sank down on the floor, tucking her hands under her, feeling the cold seep into her flesh. She expected Anneliese to rise and level the weapon, but she remained seated on the cot, seemingly too tired to move. Maybe she wouldn’t run at all. Maybe she was ready to turn herself in. Jordan didn’t really think so, but she tried a different tack.
“Whatever you do to me, don’t hurt Ruth.”
Anneliese looked surprised. “What reason would I have to do that?”
“She’s not your daughter. Do you even love her?”