To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 51

The article was written. After reading Sam's notes three times and interjecting an indignant "What?" every time Mr. Bradley's confessions proved Sam right, Timothy succumbed to a state of numb resignation that allowed him to write the article the way it should be written: as if he wasn't the nephew of a man that thought it right to hire a murderer to keep his business afloat.

However, it was unavoidable that the Wrights got into it, since his aunt's death had been the first Dare Murder. After much argument he convinced Sam that they didn't need their names on this article. Anyone that noticed a Wright was in the byline would wonder at the veracity of the article's report. All that mattered was that Lyman knew.

When they delivered the article to him so late that everyone else had already gone home, he read it without once taking a puff of his cigar. At the end of it he sat back, laid the paper on the table, and narrowed his eyes at them. "I've been the editor of The Thameton Pry for almost six years, and I haven't had a news rat yet—let alone two—that would do what you have done."

Timothy was not more than minimally warmed by such a compliment from such a man, but Sam sounded confused. "You assigned it to us."

Lyman nodded, then unlocked the drawer under his desk and slowly, deliberately, counted out ten thalers apiece. "This story is gold, you know," he said, pushing the money towards them. He shook his head again. "Pity."

Timothy took up the thalers, wondering if this was what it felt like to be rich. Up until that moment he was mostly only glad to be done with the foul business, but Sam's intuition had once again earned them Lyman's favor. He'd never written a story that paid this well, even divided between two people!

He followed Sam down to the street door in a daze, pockets clinking, and tried to decide what to spend such a bewildering fortune on. Rent? Writing materials? Books? Cab fare?

Sam grinned when they stepped out onto the street. The evening air was humid and uncomfortably close, reducing shadows to a mere darker shade of brown than the light. "Wait'll Edith sees this! She didn't think someone could make a living writing for the papers, but now she'll see."

Edith. Mary! "Good heavens, Sam!" Timothy exclaimed. "I almost forgot!"

"Forgot what?" Sam asked, jingling the thalers in his pocket.

"Tomorrow's Sunday!"

Sam peered at him in the gathering darkness like he was trying to see whether Timothy's head was still attached to his shoulders. "That's generally what follows a Saturday."

"No, you don't—it's not—" Timothy began to cross the street before Sam could ask any questions, then stopped and came back when he remembered what Sam had to go home to. "Will you be all right?"

Sam jingled the coins in his pocket again. "I've got a consolation gift. I think she'll let me in."

Timothy wavered on the edge of indecision once more, then started back across the street to make good his escape now that he knew Sam was safe. "Good night!"

Sam's laughter was strangely muffled in the evening quiet, but still audible as Timothy reached the other side. "Good night."

He knew. But somehow Timothy didn't care. He was just glad Sam had the good sense not to pursue the subject. When he got home, Mrs. Wright had a bowl of congealed mashed potatoes to offer him—and then, because he didn't have the protection of a guest—he was questioned.

He made a clean breast of everything, including the information he'd gained from their interview with Mr. Bradley. Mrs. Wright sat looking pale and frightened after it was over, and Mr. Wright frowned at the floor as if it were the source of all of life's problems. St. Vincent remained mercifully silent.