Times Building. It’s the most
amazing
place! I saw the archives, the news desk,
everything
!”
Of course. The
Times
was on Park Row, part of Newspaper Row, just a few blocks away.
“Great!” Carver said.
“We’re heading home—West Franklin Street, number twenty-seven. Jerrik’s uncle rents them a lovely Queen Anne Victorian with a grand oak right outside my window. Haven’t had a chance yet, but it looks like an easy climb. What about you? Shopping Devlin’s for some new clothes, I hope?”
Right. Here was Delia dressed to the nines and he, still in his threadbare Ellis Orphanage clothes. Embarrassing as that was, he
couldn’t
tell her what he was doing. Not only had he just stepped out of a secret headquarters, but she was now the ward of
reporters.
“Just… heading home,” he said.
“So you found someone to adopt you! Was it that old detective?”
Yes, and I’m living in an insane asylum with him,
he wanted to say. Instead, he half-mumbled, “No, not him.”
“Oh…,” Delia said. She looked as if she didn’t believe him. “Who, then?”
“Someone—else,” Carver stammered.
“Do they have a name?” Delia asked patiently.
The awkward silence lasted until the woman sharing Delia’s cab leaned forward. It was Anne Ribe. He recognized her from Prospective Parents Night. Her eyes glowed with an intelligence that, even though they weren’t related, reminded Carver of Delia.
She extended a white-gloved hand. “The mysterious Carver Young! Delia’s told us so much about you… and yet so little.”
Really? That was a surprise. And Delia looked uncomfortable to hear it. Carver was taken aback but remembered to shake her hand. “Not that much to tell, really.”
“Can we give you a ride? I’m sure Delia would love to catch up.”
“No!” Carver said. His answer was loud enough to make Anne Ribe blink and twist her lips into a suspicious half smile. “Thank you, but I really should be walking.”
“Where?” Delia asked. She pushed closer and mouthed, “What’s going on?”
“Nothing!” Carver mouthed back.
A fierceness took hold of her face.
“It’s not that simple,” Carver added.
“Seems simple enough,” she said, pulling herself back inside. She sat flat against the seat, leaving her barely visible.
“Well, nice meeting you!” Anne Ribe said. And the cab rolled off.
Carver watched it go, confused and distraught. Delia had always been a challenge, pushing him, but she’d also been part of his life forever. He thought of calling out, chasing the cab, telling her everything, but he couldn’t. He had an entirely new life to deal with now.
And fifty-seven Jay Cusacks. So far.
21
LIKE THE ferry prow as it rose and collapsed on the choppy gray waters, seeing Delia had lifted Carver’s spirits just high enough to send them crashing down. Returning to the dreary island didn’t improve his mood, nor did seeing Simpson slam his head into the wall.
Thud, thud, thud.
Carver almost wanted to join him.
As he trudged up the long circular stairs, he hoped against hope that his mentor would ignore him so he could throw himself onto his new bed and collapse.
The typewriter was silent, but the pile of papers beside it had grown. Hawking was at the table, peering through a magnifying glass mounted on an adjustable stand. Intricate brass items had been strewn across an oily cloth. One was held in a vise, and theretired detective was hard at work using his good left hand to polish it.
He didn’t bother looking up. “Your housework inspired me, boy.”
“What is that?” Carver asked.
“A gadget. Call me a hypocrite, but I’ve a fondness for trains. Not the silent type, the cranky old steam variety. This is a piece of old railway equipment, once used for uncoupling cars and switching tracks. Should still work on our elevated system. I find the mechanics fascinating. Almost relaxing.”
Hawking lifted his head, revealing his intense, steady eyes. “You look like
amazing
place! I saw the archives, the news desk,
everything
!”
Of course. The
Times
was on Park Row, part of Newspaper Row, just a few blocks away.
“Great!” Carver said.
“We’re heading home—West Franklin Street, number twenty-seven. Jerrik’s uncle rents them a lovely Queen Anne Victorian with a grand oak right outside my window. Haven’t had a chance yet, but it looks like an easy climb. What about you? Shopping Devlin’s for some new clothes, I hope?”
Right. Here was Delia dressed to the nines and he, still in his threadbare Ellis Orphanage clothes. Embarrassing as that was, he
couldn’t
tell her what he was doing. Not only had he just stepped out of a secret headquarters, but she was now the ward of
reporters.
“Just… heading home,” he said.
“So you found someone to adopt you! Was it that old detective?”
Yes, and I’m living in an insane asylum with him,
he wanted to say. Instead, he half-mumbled, “No, not him.”
“Oh…,” Delia said. She looked as if she didn’t believe him. “Who, then?”
“Someone—else,” Carver stammered.
“Do they have a name?” Delia asked patiently.
The awkward silence lasted until the woman sharing Delia’s cab leaned forward. It was Anne Ribe. He recognized her from Prospective Parents Night. Her eyes glowed with an intelligence that, even though they weren’t related, reminded Carver of Delia.
She extended a white-gloved hand. “The mysterious Carver Young! Delia’s told us so much about you… and yet so little.”
Really? That was a surprise. And Delia looked uncomfortable to hear it. Carver was taken aback but remembered to shake her hand. “Not that much to tell, really.”
“Can we give you a ride? I’m sure Delia would love to catch up.”
“No!” Carver said. His answer was loud enough to make Anne Ribe blink and twist her lips into a suspicious half smile. “Thank you, but I really should be walking.”
“Where?” Delia asked. She pushed closer and mouthed, “What’s going on?”
“Nothing!” Carver mouthed back.
A fierceness took hold of her face.
“It’s not that simple,” Carver added.
“Seems simple enough,” she said, pulling herself back inside. She sat flat against the seat, leaving her barely visible.
“Well, nice meeting you!” Anne Ribe said. And the cab rolled off.
Carver watched it go, confused and distraught. Delia had always been a challenge, pushing him, but she’d also been part of his life forever. He thought of calling out, chasing the cab, telling her everything, but he couldn’t. He had an entirely new life to deal with now.
And fifty-seven Jay Cusacks. So far.
21
LIKE THE ferry prow as it rose and collapsed on the choppy gray waters, seeing Delia had lifted Carver’s spirits just high enough to send them crashing down. Returning to the dreary island didn’t improve his mood, nor did seeing Simpson slam his head into the wall.
Thud, thud, thud.
Carver almost wanted to join him.
As he trudged up the long circular stairs, he hoped against hope that his mentor would ignore him so he could throw himself onto his new bed and collapse.
The typewriter was silent, but the pile of papers beside it had grown. Hawking was at the table, peering through a magnifying glass mounted on an adjustable stand. Intricate brass items had been strewn across an oily cloth. One was held in a vise, and theretired detective was hard at work using his good left hand to polish it.
He didn’t bother looking up. “Your housework inspired me, boy.”
“What is that?” Carver asked.
“A gadget. Call me a hypocrite, but I’ve a fondness for trains. Not the silent type, the cranky old steam variety. This is a piece of old railway equipment, once used for uncoupling cars and switching tracks. Should still work on our elevated system. I find the mechanics fascinating. Almost relaxing.”
Hawking lifted his head, revealing his intense, steady eyes. “You look like
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