Twenty-SevenBridget ran, reached the stairwell with her legs gone spongy, and took the steps down two at a time.
Was it possible the man Lily had called Stowe actually was a man named Stowe? Not Cripe? Had the world played a cruel joke? During Bridget’s days of fever, when she’d hovered near death, had the world shuffled the cards, dealt them again in such a flash no one saw? Ace for a king. Stowe for a Cripe. Up the sleeve all along. She tried to remember her first conversation with Tate and couldn’t remember Tate supply-ing a name.
Did I do that myself?
“Lily.” She knocked. As she waited, her heart filled with new dread. “Lily,” she tried again, found the door locked. “It’s Hannah.”
At last a slow rustling. She imagined Lily working herself from bed, possibly sliding her dark sack-dr
