To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 37

Timothy lay abed longer than usual the next morning, unable to find it in himself to rise. He was so tired. Nothing he could say or do would change the fact that he and Sam had failed to save an innocent man from the noose. Nothing Timothy did ever went right—everything seemed to shrivel up when he touched it.

When he finally did rise it was to dress, feed St. Vincent, and shuffle out the door. His mother called after him—probably trying to remind him of his breakfast—but he hadn't the stomach for it. It would only be dust in his mouth.

When he finally got to The Thameton Pry, he found he had to loiter outside the street door for several minutes before he could muster the courage to climb the stairs inside. He didn't know what he'd do if Mr. Graham decided to be antagonistic this morning.

As soon as he stepped through the door the oppressive silence inside hit him like a smothering hand. Everyone stood around in much the same places as always, but conversed only in hushed whispers, if at all. Lyman himself sat behind the desk, arms crossed, staring at the papers before him. Timothy tried to make sense of it, but couldn't. A fly buzzing in the window seemed to fill the whole room.

Sam saw him and swept past Timothy, beckoning for him to follow him back down the stairs it had taken him most of five minutes just to climb. "What's happening?" Timothy asked, but Sam wouldn't say anything until they were both outside again. The sun seemed cruelly bright.

"Mr. Graham is dead," Sam whispered in a rush.

"He—what?" Timothy gaped at Sam, some of the fog lifted by pure shock.

"He's the third dare murder!" Sam plunged ahead. "There was a note left with his corpse—"

Timothy staggered and sat down on the doorstep.

"—and the police asked Lyman to identify him because there was evidence in his notebook of working for The Thameton Pry."

Timothy stared. Shock was uppermost, then terror. Mr. Graham must have been killed for knowing too much. As little as he'd thought of Mr. Graham while he was alive, he hadn't thought him the type that would become a murder conspirator. He must have been killed for following the murderer's tracks too closely in the name of a job.

Sam continued to talk—at least, his lips were moving—but Timothy couldn't seem to hear him. It had just occurred to him how very much he had to lose. His mother, father, St. Vincent—Mary. Even Sam. All the beloved copies of his favorite stories, cracking at the spine, and Mrs. Mason hammering at the floorboards with her broom. What if today was the last day he squinted in the sunlight, or picked his way across a busy street? Was a job worth his life?

"No," Timothy interrupted suddenly, "No, no, no. Whatever you're saying, Sam, don't."

Sam stopped, brow furrowed.

Timothy got to his feet, dusting himself off. "I have spent the better part of eight years more than half unwilling to be alive," he said. "But I've just realized that I'd really rather stay in the land of the living."

A bewildered smile appeared on Sam's face. "That's wonderful," he said, "But I was just reminding you that Mr. Webb is safe now. He can't have murdered Mrs. Armstrong if he was in prison when Mr. Graham was killed."

"Good morning!" Timothy exclaimed, startling a nearby pair of pigeons.

Sam flagged down a cab, and the two of them set off to the prison to make sure the right people knew of that evidence before the trial. When Mr. Webb saw them he seemed almost frightened—as if he expected them to tell him there was nothing they could do. But when Sam told him the news, he broke down weeping.

"Praise be to God, I've got a chance!" he cried.

Timothy and Sam left him worshipping in the dark of the prison, and Timothy climbed back in the cab feeling an uncomfortable mixture of satisfaction and sadness. He'd never liked Mr. Graham, and his death wouldn't change that. But it was disturbing to think that a young life had been cut short so soon—and that he'd spent it belittling his fellow passengers to the grave.

"Did he have family?" Timothy asked Sam, bracing himself as the cab jolted over a rut. Was there a mother somewhere that didn't know that her son would never come home again?

Sam shook his head, looking out the window. "The only identification they found in his pockets led them to Lyman. I suppose any family will come forward soon enough."

The cab jolted again, and Timothy shifted in the seat. He couldn't fathom what it must be like to find out that a family member had died through the paper's death notices. What if Mr. Graham hadn't had any family?

There was a long silence, and then Sam asked the question Timothy had been dreading. "Do you want to write on Mr. Graham's—"

"No."

Sam sighed. "But—"

"No," Timothy repeated, more firmly. "This is dangerous. Mr. Graham must have been killed for knowing too much, and I don't want to follow him to an early grave."

Sam sighed again, but didn't argue any more.

When the cab left them outside The Thameton Pry, Timothy debated whether to follow up with Mrs. Lancaster's animal menagerie, or update Thameton on fruit prices. He decided to petition Lyman for the latter. If Mary saw him at the Lancasters' again without knowing he'd be there—it didn't bear thinking of.

But as soon as they stepped through the door of the now-empty room, Lyman's chair screeched back and he got up with a suddenness that suggested he'd been waiting for them. He stepped out from behind his desk, then leaned on it as if for support.

"I have a story for the both of you," he rasped.

Sam looked at Timothy.

"Find out who's behind the Dare Murders."

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It's easy to lose sight of the fact that a good life isn't made up of triumphs. It's made of little, ordinary, wonderful moments, and Timothy is just beginning to grab hold of that fact.