I stepped to one side, wishing to squeeze past him and the tub to reach the door. He shifted as well, blocking me again. “A glimpse of a lady’s ankle is like the first sip of wine. Makes you thirsty for the whole bottle. Now before we make any formal agreement, I’d like to test the goods.”
“Stay away from—” I began, but quick as a striking adder, he clamped one hand over my mouth and the other on the back of my head. I clawed at him, trying to scream, but he squeezed harder, smashing my lips into my teeth . I tasted blood.
“Scream all you want. Ain’t no one here going to rescue you. I pay handsomely, see.”
He shoved me backward onto the bed. My head recoiled off the mattress when I landed. Looking wildly around for salvation, I spotted the scrubbing brush on the side table. When he looked down to undo his trousers, I reached over and closed my fingers around the handle.
Scrambling up, I swung it hard against the side of his head. My leverage was not good, but he yelped and grabbed my throat.
“Whore!” he spat.
Wasting no time, I brought the brush up again and clubbed him in the face, causing blood to spurt from his nostrils. He jerked back to avoid another blow, but the movement threw him off balance and he slipped. His arms flailed, but his feet couldn’t get purchase on the wet floor.
Backward he fell. With a sickening crack, his head banged against the edge of the tub.
And as Ty Yorkshire crashed to the floor, his fall sent out ripples I feared would chase me no matter which way I ran.
I dropped the brush. It clattered on the cold, wet tile beside the dead man’s head. An owl cried outside, and a clock chimed nine times.
? ? ?
Moments after the last chime, the door opens again. Annamae enters, bearing a tray.
“Oh, Lord,” she gasps, eyes doubling in size.
“I think he’s dead,” I whisper. “He was trying to—to—”
Annamae shuts the door and sets down the tray. She paces for a moment. Then she straightens the waist of her dress. “Move him to the bed before the blood soaks to the first floor,” she orders.
The hysterics gather in my chest, making it hard to breathe, let alone move.
She appraises my trembling self. Then, to my surprise, she hugs me. “Pull it together.”
The warmth of her touch quells some of my panic. “I . . . I’m going to hell.”
She pushes me away from her, and bends down so our faces are even. Her determined expression stirs me to mimic it. “Only if we don’t do something about him.”
She’s right. I can’t come undone yet. She grips Ty Yorkshire’s arms, and I take his legs—one leg anyway. The man must weigh two hundred pounds. Together, we haul him onto the bed. Our efforts leave a trail of blood, more than I’ve ever seen at once. No one loses this much blood and lives.
When we finish, I’m heaving with exhaustion.
“How old are you?” she asks.
I catch my breath. “Fifteen.”
“Old enough for the noose. You’ll get your death wish, then.”
I wipe my eyes at this sobering thought. My father is dead, my home destroyed, and I just killed a man—at least, that’s what they will believe. I have no business aboveground. Yet suddenly, I don’t want to die.
I could return to New York. It would be dangerous, a wanted criminal traveling through populated areas. But without Father, New York would just be another faceless city, worse now because living there would constantly remind me of my disrespect.
No, there is no going back.
Father said he had great plans for us, and I owe it to him to find out what they were. Mr. Trask was Father’s best friend, and now he is my only real connection to the living. I could catch him. He only left a few weeks ago. After all, there’s only one road west.
“Annamae, I’m going to California.”