Page 20 of City of Liars

I was thirty-four years old, long past the time when my parents’ approval had the ability to dictate my decisions. Did it really matter what they thought?

“Please, Olivia,” Theo said, his voice low and intimate. I remembered him begging, God. Please, before the first time we made love. I hadn’t wanted to refuse him then. I didn’t want to do it now.

He’d paid the price for what had happened to Lily Dressler, wherever she was right now. Dead and buried, lost forever, or in my grandmother’s hundred-year-old brick colonial a few blocks away. A trauma like that couldn’t help but affect a family for generations. Just look how it had affected mine, and we were the ones who’d come out on top.

This was the right thing to do. I knew that in my soul.

I leaned over the side of the bench, snapping off a sprig of the rosemary that grew alongside the deck. Bringing it to my nose, I closed my eyes and inhaled, trying to center myself.

“Okay,” I said. “But if you say one word about who you really are⁠—”

“I won’t. I’ll be a perfect gentleman. You’ll see.”

“You’d better be,” I warned him.

And so we made a plan.

11

City of Ruin - 1927

James McEwan paced outside the Armstrong family’s mansion on New York City’s Fifth Avenue, his old black coat and worn Oxfords at odds with the opulence around him. The band was packing up, loading their instruments into a cherry-red Model T. He passed the time with them while waiting for his sister Maisie to come outside, stalking the sidewalk to keep warm.

Maisie worked as one of the Armstrongs’ maids. James had gotten her the job; he’d heard about it from Bill Armstrong, one of the fat cats at The Players, where James was a server and valet. Tonight was one of the Armstrongs’ infamous society balls. Maisie had worked late, and James, who’d had the day off, had come to walk her home.

The ornate wooden door to the mansion opened and Maisie emerged, pausing underneath the archway to tug on her gloves. James took a step forward to greet her. And then he froze.

He hadn’t expected her to come out the front; the help used the side entrance. But there she stood, her head tilted, peering up at someone who stood in the doorway. The electric light that seeped out of the mansion illuminated her smile, but something about it was unsettling. It was coquettish, an expression he’d never seen Maisie wear before.

Behind him, one of the musicians gave an appreciative chuckle. “Who’s that Sheba?” he said. “Benny, get a load of those gams.”

James spun, glaring at them. “That’s my sister you’re talking about,” he snarled. “I’ll thank you to shut your mouth quick and in a hurry.”

James and Maisie had come to America from Aberdeen with their mother and brothers, all of whom had died of the flux on the ship. When they landed at Ellis Island, having only each other, James had been twelve. While his Scottish burr had softened in the six intervening years, Maisie always told him the more upset he got, the more obvious it became. You sound like you’re growling, she’d say, imitating him. Especially when you say anything that has the letter ‘r.’ Apparently the menace in his tone was clear enough, growl or not, because the man took a mollifying step back.

“No offense meant,” he said, gesturing at the archway where Maisie stood. “Besides, looks like she’s spoken for.”

James turned back around, about to ask him what the hell he meant by that. But then he saw for himself. George Armstrong, Bill’s son, loomed in the doorway, polished and urbane in a herringbone suit. The wind caught hold of Maisie’s hat, and Armstrong snagged it, placing it back on her head with a familiarity that made James’s gut churn. The man’s fingers lingered a little too long, tracing their way down Maisie’s cheek. James wanted to break every one of them.

The wind gusted again, and this time Maisie clapped a hand to her head, letting out a flirtatious giggle. James had had enough. He took a step forward, opening his mouth. But then Maisie turned, waving a cheery goodbye to Armstrong, and came down the walk. The bastard watched her go, weaving a bit—God, he was splifficated!—before mercifully shutting the door.

Maisie came even with James and smiled up at him, flashing her dimples. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she began, just as he said, narrowing his eyes, “What in the world⁠—”

She sighed, resigned, and set off down the sidewalk as the musicians’ car pulled away from the curb. “There you go again, growling, James. You sound like the wolves at the Central Park Zoo.”

He took hold of her shoulders, bringing her to a halt. “Dinnae be telling me what I sound like. What are you doing with that man?”

Maisie twisted free of his grip and started walking again, one hand holding tight to her hat. “That’s no but Mr. Armstrong.”

“I know who it is!” He lengthened his stride, catching up to her as she rounded the corner. “I’ve seen him and his father down at the club, often and again. What I want to know is, what is he doing, walking you out that way? And putting his hands on you?”

She gave a dismissive snort. “You make it sound like he was committing indecencies, James. The food carts were loading out the side door; it made more sense for me to use the front. I would’ve been waiting ages, otherwise. As for Mr. Armstrong, you should be glad he walked me out. Otherwise, my hat would be flattened in the street right this minute.” She inclined her head at the Model T that roared by them, the man who’d appreciated Maisie’s legs giving an appreciative whistle that did nothing to improve James’s mood.

“Better your hat than your virtue,” James snapped, before he could think better of it.

At that, Maisie stopped dead. Under the gleam of the streetlight, her cheeks flamed scarlet. “How dare you? What exactly are you insinuating, James MacEwan?”

James could feel himself blushing, too, but fury championed over embarrassment, and he held her gaze. “It’s my job to protect you, in case you’ve forgotten. You’re innocent, Maisie. And men, especially rich ones…they think everyone belongs to them. As a maid, you’re one step away from being George Armstrong’s property. He thinks he can use you for his own means, and the devil take anyone who tries to tell him otherwise.”