Chapter 8: A Dangerous Visitor

Making a living on the river wasn’t as easy as I’d thought. There were always people looking for trouble, especially since I was just a girl with a younger sister.

Some men would stare too long, some women whispered behind my back. I learned to keep my chin up and move fast, never showing fear.

But there were rules on the river—if you paid protection money, someone would look out for you.

Every month, I’d slip an envelope under the old man’s door at the docks. In return, he’d tip his hat when I passed, and trouble mostly left us alone.

I wasn’t afraid of hard work, only of trouble.

I’d grown up with hardship; it was danger that made my hands shake.

So when someone knocked on the door, I was startled. In this city, it was just Pearl and me—who would come looking for us after dark?

The knock was sharp, not like the Harris kids or a friendly neighbor. My heart jumped into my throat.

“Who is it?”

My voice cracked, but I tried to sound steady.

“My last name is Westfield.”

The voice outside was low and pleasant—a man’s voice. Westfield? I didn’t have time to think. I threw on my jacket and got out of bed.

I felt my hands go numb. I didn’t know if I should be afraid or relieved, but I opened the door anyway, squinting into the hallway’s dim light.

He slipped inside as soon as I opened the door. I quickly closed it behind him.

He moved fast, his footsteps barely making a sound on the worn linoleum. I locked the door behind us, my heart racing.

He stood by the bed, back to me, looking at Pearl. The apartment was small—just a curtain separated the bed from the main room. Now that he’d pulled it aside, everything was in plain view.

The lamplight caught his profile, casting long shadows on the wall. Pearl didn’t stir, lost in dreams, her thumb tucked under her chin.

He was tall, wearing a dark coat, his hair neatly combed.

His presence filled the room, making it feel even smaller. I straightened my back and waited.

I could guess who he was, but dared not ask. I simply waited for him to look his fill.

My mind raced with questions, but I bit my tongue, watching him study Pearl with eyes full of longing and regret.

I added wood to the heater, boiled water, poured him a cup of tea—the same kind I served my customers, nothing fancy, but decent.

Steam curled from the cup, the scent of black tea mingling with the smoke from the stove. I set it on the table, hands shaking just a little.

When he came out from behind the curtain, the lamp was dim, but I could see him clearly.

He was like a figure cut from a different world—so sharp, so polished it almost hurt to look at him.

People in the house said he was as handsome as a movie star. I’d never understood what that meant, but seeing him now, I did.

There was something in his posture, a quiet confidence, the kind you see in old photos of men in suits. He seemed out of place here, but he didn’t look uncomfortable.

He looked a lot like Mrs. Westfield, except his brows were thicker and longer, and he had these naturally striking eyes. Even without smiling, he looked gentle and warm. His nose was straight, lips not too thin, and his jawline was sharp.

I caught myself tracing the line of his jaw with my eyes, embarrassed by how much I noticed.

Looking closer, there was a small black mole beneath his lip, but his whole manner was cool and distant.

It was the kind of flaw that made him more real, more human. But he seemed wrapped in ice—untouchable.

Cold and captivating—‘handsome’ was too plain a word. And he was so fair-skinned.

He had the kind of looks you’d expect to see in a magazine or on TV, not sitting in a shabby apartment in a worn-out Ohio town.

He didn’t even take off his coat, just sat down and picked up the tea I’d poured.

He cupped the mug in both hands, letting the warmth seep in, but his gaze never left me.

Even his hands were beautiful. Truly, some people just have it all.

Long, slender fingers, nails clean and trimmed. They didn’t look like hands that knew hard work, but maybe I was wrong.

His eyes were dark and deep; when he looked at someone, it made your heart skip a beat.

I felt my cheeks grow warm under his gaze, so I looked away and busied myself tidying the table.

Judging by his clothes, he didn’t seem broke—the white shirt under his coat looked expensive, the kind you’d only see at a fancy store. If he wasn’t broke, why hadn’t he rescued the rest of the Westfields?

The shirt had pearl buttons and crisp cuffs. I’d only ever seen shirts like that on mannequins in the department store window downtown.

Politics was a dangerous game. I dared not ask, nor did I want to. I simply stood by, waiting for his questions.

I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, determined to wait him out, no matter how long it took.

“Calm and unhurried—you’ve got guts. No wonder you’ve kept Natalie safe.” His voice was low and cool. I dared not meet his gaze, only ducked my head, like a kid caught sneaking cookies, and said nothing.

His praise stung more than any scolding. I wondered if he knew how scared I really was most days.

“Take this. Tomorrow, find a way out of the city and deliver it to Pastor Franklin at St. Mark’s Church. This is serious. You have to be careful. If there were any other way, I wouldn’t have come to you.”

He pressed the bundle into my hands, his fingers lingering just long enough for me to feel their warmth. The weight of responsibility settled heavy in my gut.

I didn’t want to accept it, but hearing the urgency and helplessness in his voice, I gritted my teeth and took it.

I nodded once, tucking the bundle into my coat pocket, trying to look braver than I felt.

It was wrapped in cloth, like a book, not very thick. When he handed it over, it was still warm from his hand.

I resisted the urge to peek, knowing better than to ask questions about things that could get us all killed.

“Young man, please take care. The Westfields are still waiting for you in jail.”

My voice was soft, almost pleading. I hoped he heard what I meant: be careful, for their sake and for ours.

He stood to leave. In the end, I couldn’t help myself—for Pearl, for the Westfields—I spoke.

He paused in the doorway, the shadow of a smile flickering across his face.

He nodded, then suddenly smiled, dazzling as sunlight.

For a second, the coldness melted away, and I could see the boy he must have been—a little reckless, a little kind.

“Aren’t you afraid the Westfields and I might be bad people?”

His question caught me off guard. For a second, I didn’t know how to answer.

“I only know the Westfields treated me well. That’s enough.” If not for them, who knows what would have become of me.

My answer was simple, but it was the truth. In this world, kindness counted for everything.

He nodded and slipped away.

The door clicked shut behind him, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

St. Mark’s wasn’t just any church. It only opened on Sundays and holidays. Tomorrow was neither, so getting in would be tough—let alone meeting the pastor.

I stared at the bundle on my table, wondering how I’d get inside without drawing attention. But a promise was a promise.

Early the next morning, I left Pearl with Mrs. Harris and set out for Lincoln Hill.

I bundled up in my thickest coat, boots crunching over the frost as I walked across town. The air was sharp, full of birdsong and distant church bells.

Though they called it a hill, Lincoln wasn’t steep. I was used to hard work; climbing a few slopes was nothing.

A couple of joggers in hoodies passed me, their breath puffing in the cold air. I felt like a ghost among the living, walking with a secret no one could see.

At the church gate, the doors were shut tight. Inside, I heard the choir practicing.

The sound of voices—pure and rising—drifted through the stained glass, filling the morning with hope.