and toilet and…” His sentence broke off. “Too many details,” he muttered.
While he stored the garments on a coat tree, Lily stepped toward the sitting room. The beige walls smelled faintly of new paint. An oriental rug lay below a sizable brown davenport and maple-wood coffee table. On a square stand in the corner was an RCA radio, sleek with its arched body of polished wood. Although no single item blared with extravagance, the residence as a whole seemed somewhat lavish for a relatively new reporter, considering the steep prices of the city.
Ellis came closer. His necktie was loose and casual.
She pinned on a smile. “You’ve done awfully well for yourself.”
He smiled back, tinged with uncertainty. After a brief lull, he asked, “How about a drink?”
She nodded. “Water, please.”
“Drink of the night,” he said under his breath.
She tilted her head, not understanding.
“Water it is,” he confirmed lightly and retreated into the kitchen.
Lily padded across the rug and set her gloves and handbag on the coffee table. On the wall to her right, picture frames of various sizes created a collage of sorts. No—more of a shrine, it seemed upon closer inspection. For highlighted at the top, hung at eye level, were two articles featuring Ellis’s byline. A slew of unsigned but sizeable clippings, presumably also by him, took up the second and third tiers.
She skimmed the topics: salacious affairs, a scandalous divorce, a séance for a mobster’s widow. The others, mostly of political corruption, at least possessed more merit than sensationalism. But of them all, not a single piece resembled the deeper human stories he had once prided himself on writing. The stories that had made Ellis different.
“You didn’t tell me,” he said, arriving with two glasses. “What brought you to New York?”
She accepted the water, turning away from the wall. “A wedding.”
He went still. “You…got married?”
She realized how it could have sounded. “No. Not me. A friend of Clayton’s.”
Ellis’s shoulders relaxed, but just as swiftly an air of tension returned. He clinked his glass on hers. “Cheers,” he said, which Lily echoed.
As she drank her water, Ellis swallowed a gulp of amber liquid, its potency obvious from its scent. Evidently he hadn’t had his fill. Unlike her sips of champagne earlier, nothing about his behavior tonight indicated a rare occurrence.
He gestured toward the davenport. “Want to sit?”
She politely agreed but assumed the far end. He followed suit by taking the opposite side and set his glass atop his knee. Streetlamps threw slices of light through the partially open blinds of the room’s lone window. Down below, motorcars rumbled in passing.
Lily thought to bring up the letter then, her excuse for seeking him out.
“So,” he said, “where is that beau of yours?”
She had to reconcile the reference. Her instinct then was to correct his assumption. But for now, she had no idea where she and Clayton stood. And honestly, after observing Ellis at the Royal, she felt no obligation to explain.
“There was a robbery during the reception. Near Times Square. He rushed off to cover it.”
Ellis looked incredulous despite his heavy-lidded eyes. “And he left you there?”
The question took her aback. “I… Well, yes, but…I told him he should.”
After a moment, Ellis nodded. “Okay.”
The single word in and of itself was just fine. His tone, however, rang of disapproval.
“It was a big story,” she contended. “Some were saying it might have been Willie Sutton. Maybe a fatal shooting too.” She expected a glint in Ellis’s eyes, maybe envy from missing out—what journalist wouldn’t be interested?
But he just raised his glass for another swig, his mouth hinting at a smirk. “Suppose it makes sense. After all, that’s typical Clayton Brauer, right?”
She suddenly felt defensive on Clayton’s behalf. And for herself. She resented the inference that when it came to courting, she would let herself be tossed aside—something she had vowed to never do again. Still, she strove to remain casual. “Oh? And how is that exactly?”
Ellis appeared surprised by the need to clarify. “C’mon, you know his type.”
She waited for the answer.
Finally, he leaned toward her, as if divulging a secretive insight. “Need help from the guy? Better yell ‘fire.’ Yell ‘murder’ and he’ll grab a pen.” Ellis chuckled while reclining into the cushions and swirled his drink.
Whether or not truth underlay his remarks—in fact, gratingly, she knew it did—Lily wasn’t nearly as entertained. “But you’re wrong about him. I go to Maryville every weekend to…help with my parents’ deli.” She barely caught herself. “And he’s repeatedly gone out of his