when she couldn’t deny she hadn’t given birth to Ruth, she came up with the story about finding her as an orphan abandoned beside the lake . . . but at first, when she was explaining Ruth’s nightmares, hadn’t there been a story about how a refugee woman had attacked them on the lakeshore and frightened Ruth? Had Anneliese been telling the truth, as much of it as she could? It was the cleverest way to lie, after all.
She wasn’t the one being attacked, Jordan thought. She was the one who did the attacking. Desperate to leave, desperate not to be caught, desperate to get away, she had met a woman by the lake—a Jewish woman named Anneliese Weber who had papers, boat tickets, refugee status, and a little girl. The answer to every prayer. Just murder her and take it all. Ruth—with her strained seeking eyes, her musicality, her sudden vacillation between laughter and fear, pulling toward Anneliese and then pulling away—had watched her mother murdered by the woman who then became her mother.
“Why did she take you?” Jordan whispered aloud. It would have been easier to travel unencumbered, surely. And she had no qualms killing children before.
Numbly, Jordan shook her head. The old admonishment rang in her brain of Jordan and her wild imagination! In the space of a single morning the world had turned into a wilder and more horrible place than her imagination could ever have conjured up.
“Here we are, miss.”
Jordan shoved a handful of change at the driver and tumbled out of the cab. The car was here; Anneliese was home. Of course she was. Jordan drew in a shaky breath. Pretend nothing has happened, she thought. Make up a story, get Ruth out of the house. Just do it.
She squared her shoulders and went to face the huntress.
“DON’T CRY, JORDAN.” Anneliese opened her arms, brows creasing. “He’s not worth it.”
No way to hide her reddened eyes, not from Anneliese’s penetrating gaze, so Jordan hadn’t even tried. The moment Anneliese came out of her sewing room with Taro wagging at her heels, Jordan released the sob hovering in her throat and exploded into tears, choking out as incoherently as possible that he’s broken my heart.
“Your young man disappointed you?” Anneliese’s embrace was soft and lilac scented; Jordan managed not to shudder. “I thought he wasn’t anyone serious.”
“I got a lot fonder of him than I meant to,” Jordan choked, realizing she was telling the truth. Somewhere in this welter of horror and fear there was a stab of betrayal all for Tony. Tony in the darkroom, arms about her waist, wire strong and wanting against her as she asked if he’d tell her a secret. There’s one I want to tell you and can’t. Letting her think that as long as there weren’t wives or children or warrants to worry about, it was all fine. As all the while, he and his friends staked out her shop, her family, her life.
Use that, J. Bryde, Jordan told herself as she cried in her stepmother’s arms. Use the tears, use the anger, use it all. She pulled back at last, wiping her eyes, tremulous smile not one bit faked. “I’m sorry to cry, Anna. You’re right, he isn’t worth it.”
“You’ll meet someone else in New York. Some dashing young man who brings you roses.” Her brows were creased with worry. You shot six children in cold blood, Jordan thought. Now you wring your hands over my boyfriend problems. But she pushed that away, hard.
“I thought I’d go out for an ice cream, take Ruth with me. I need something sweet.”
“A bruised heart definitely calls for ice cream. Ruth just got into her bath, but I’ll hurry her out.” Anneliese smiled, arm still about Jordan’s shoulders, and Jordan’s heart cracked because that smile was so warm and soothing that she still had the urge to trust it. Like Taro, who sat shoving an adoring black nose under Anneliese’s free hand, Jordan felt the same instinctive surge of comfort as her stepmother’s soft, murderous fingers stroked her hair.
First horror, then fear for Ruth had carried Jordan through the last hour of shocks. Now the third reaction rose, more terrible than the first two, and it was shame, because she couldn’t help the reflexive leap of affection at Anneliese’s touch. She’s a murderess. A Nazi murderess—but there was still the urge to lean into that calming hand, to want to doubt the truth even after seeing all the evidence. Because