Witch in the White City: A Dark Historical Fantasy/Mystery (Neva Freeman Book 1) Nick Wisseman (best management books of all time txt) 📖

Until they turned the corner onto the DeBells’ street and saw Copeland exiting the front door. Then the quiet became silence again. Dreadful, anticipatory silence. But only long enough for another man—a police officer, by the look of his uniform—to follow Copeland out of the house.

“Kanters?” called Wiley, apparently recognizing the officer.

Copeland regarded Wiley for a moment, but it was Neva he spoke to as they drew close. “Rather far from the Fair this morning, aren’t you Ms. Freeman? Did you decide to leave it after all?”

“Morning, Wiley,” Kanters added. “You here about the note as well?”

Copeland glanced at the police officer in irritation, but Wiley had already seized the opening. “What note?” he demanded. “That scrap in the unidentified’s pocket?”

“The same,” Kanters answered, oblivious to Copeland’s disapproval. “Union Stockyard stationary, it turns out. One of the Pinkertons made the match; he did some work for them a few years back. The telltale bit was ripped off, but he recognized the color.”

The police officer said something else, about how they’d gone to the Yards and asked around to see if anyone was missing, but Neva missed most of it—she was too busy pushing past Copeland, sprinting up the DeBells’ front steps, and darting through the main door.

Lucretia was in the drawing-room, attended by Hatty. Both women seemed shaken. And on the table ...

On the table was a flashy hat, a bedraggled coat, and a torn piece of paper, its remaining third covered in familiar handwriting. Most of it had been crossed out or washed away by a water stain. Yet the first few lines were legible: Derek, my son. I should have told you this long ago ...

Lucretia met Neva’s horrified gaze without flinching, but her former employer’s voice was hoarse. “I’m afraid you weren’t my first caller today, either. They’ve found Edward.”

Chapter Twenty-One

MR. DEBELL’S BODY HAD been located near the Stockyards a week and a half ago, lower half lying in the corrupted waters of Bubbly Creek, face battered beyond recognition, and personal effects stolen except for the scrap of what looked to be a draft of his confession about Neva and Augie’s parentage. But “Derek” was the only name mentioned in the surviving text, most of which was just anguished preamble. So the police had been at loose ends until the Pinkertons identified the letter’s company of origin. From there, a second round of questions at the Yards had revealed Mr. DeBell’s by-then-lengthy absence, and Mrs. DeBell had confirmed that the hat, coat, and handwriting belonged to her husband.

Or so she told Neva as Hatty served tea.

Derek held his cup in both hands but didn’t drink. “I wish there were a more delicate way to put this, but do they need one of us—need me—to go to the morgue and ...?”

“No.” Mrs. DeBell smiled sadly at him. She’d sent messages to Jasper and Abiah, but while she waited for her natural children to arrive, she seemed content to have her foster family with her. “Thank you. But no. They said there was no purpose in it. That we wouldn’t be able to know him ... Oh, God.”

Neva looked away as Mrs. DeBell succumbed to the reality of her widowhood. What had it taken for this woman—how hard must it have been—to accept three bastard babes into her home?

“There’s no easy way to put this either,” Neva said when the crying abated, “but the letter—Derek showed me the final version. It says ...”

“The truth.” Mrs. DeBell’s eyes narrowed for a second before their edges softened with yet more tears. “I’m sure it tells the truth. But another day. We’ll speak of it another day.”

“Of course.”

From there, little of import was discussed until Abiah arrived. And when Jasper came a few minutes later—both children lived nearby, in the Gold Coast—Neva and Derek made their excuses and left Mrs. DeBell with her biological kin.

Wiley awaited them outside. “I’m so sorry,” he said as Neva stepped through the doorway. “I didn’t know they’d gotten so far with the lead, and I should have guessed that the ‘Derek’ in the note was ... him.”

She shook her head. “It’s fine. Not your fault.”

It wasn’t fine, though.

She’d been sloshing with emotion the last few days, but now she just felt hollow, as if someone had drilled a hole in her heart and let her soul drain out. Augie and Mr. DeBell ... There was no righting this. No way to go back to before. This was her new life, bereft of family.

Except for Derek.

His presence next to her as they walked back to the rail station meant everything. Wiley’s sympathy was heartfelt, yet he didn’t know her true relationship to Mr. DeBell, and she had no intention of illuminating him. But Derek... He knew it all. The only person in the world who did. She was more grateful than she could say to be able to lean her head on his shoulder after they took their seats on the train. One passenger muttered about “indecent contact with a colored,” and another wrinkled her nose, but Neva didn’t care.

“Can you spare another hour?” she asked Derek as the train approached the Fair.

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes. More if you need it. I’ve little mind to work today.”

She led him and Wiley, trailing at a respectful distance, to the remnants of the Cold Storage Building, most of it already cleared away (a testament to the efficiency of Director Burnham’s work crews). Ash was still everywhere, however, and it was easy enough to scoop a handful into her jacket pocket—the one not containing the cowry shells. Funny: she hadn’t felt their lure all morning. Was it waning? Or was she just too numb?

Next, Neva took Derek to the Japanese Ho-o-den on the Wooded Island. The elegant pavilion seemed as good a place as any to hold a service.

“Would you rather find a church?” asked Derek once he realized what she was about.

“Not for this.”

They didn’t go