Chapter 6 - The Logic of the Cottage
The cottage behind the garage at the Delaware Avenue estate had once been the gardener’s quarters in the twenties, built of dark fieldstone and covered in thick strands of dead ivy that rattled against the glass in the November wind.
Inside, it was small but warm, filled with the deep, clean scent of cedarwood and the dry heat from an old cast-iron radiator that hissed like an angry cat every time the boiler in the main house kicked on.
Sadie spent her first three days doing what she did best: cleaning. She scrubbed the old wood floors until the grain showed white under the yellow lightbulbs; she washed the small kitchen windows until she could see the gray expanse of the river past the stone walls of the gatehouse.
Leo loved the place. For a boy who had spent his entire life in a third-floor flat over a tannery lane, a yard with a real grass lawn and two high-security enforcers who would occasionally throw a red rubber ball to him over the gravel driveway was the equivalent of a theme park.
“He’s getting fat on your mother’s soup, Sadie,” Gabriel said on a Thursday evening, stepping through the low door frame of the cottage without knocking. He was carrying a cardboard box filled with brand-new children’s books and a wooden train set that looked like it had been bought from the expensive toy store on Rittenhouse Square.
Sadie was sitting on the rug, her legs crossed, an old sewing kit in her lap as she mended one of Leo’s small socks. She didn't look up when the door opened.
“Set it by the door, Mr. Finch,” she said, her voice steady. “Leo’s already asleep. And he doesn't need twenty-piece train sets. He needs to know why the big men with the radios under their coats keep asking him what his favorite color is.”
Gabriel set the box down with a soft thud near the coat rack. He didn't leave. He walked over to the small wood stove, his large frame casting a long, dark shadow across the white-scrubbed floorboards until he stood three feet from her shoulder.
“The boys are just keeping their eyes open, Sadie,” Gabriel murmured, his voice dropping into that private register that belonged only to the dark hours of the night. “The North Side crew is getting restless. They lost three of their major houses on Sixth Street after the thing with Chloe. They know I’m distracted.”
Sadie set the sock down, her hazel eyes lifting to meet his green gaze in the firelight. “You’re always distracted, Gabriel. You’re distracted by the money, you’re distracted by the dock workers, and you’re distracted by a ghost who died five years ago in a hospital bed in Baltimore.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened, the muscle near his ear twitching with a sudden, dangerous intensity that usually preceded a broken glass or a broken hand. “You don't know anything about my wife, Sadie.”
“I know she died of the same thing your daughter tried to do on my bathroom floor,” Sadie said softly, her voice completely devoid of the sharp arrogance she had used at the diner. “The triage nurse told me while they were stitching my hand. She said Mrs. Finch didn't make it because the driver didn't get her to the clinic until four in the morning. You were down at the docks that night too, weren't you?”
May you like
Gabriel didn't answer. He turned his back on her, his long strides taking him across the small room in two seconds, his hand resting on the heavy brass knob of the door before her voice stopped him again.
“She doesn't hate you, Gabriel,” Sadie said from the rug, her fingers picking up the silver needle again. “Chloe. She doesn't hate you because you’re a gangster. She hates you because every time you look at her, you look like you’re trying to remember the face of a woman who left you behind.”
