Searching for Home (Spies of Chicago Book 1) (21 page)

The next bus wouldn’t chug through this area for another twenty minutes. She didn’t want to stand out in public mulling over her thoughts. A glance across the street became her answer: Moody Church.

Her heart pulled, telling her she’d find solace there.

After traffic clogged at the red light, Whitney zigzagged through the cars. She skirted past a man hawking newspapers written by the homeless and veered up the steps. Afternoon light shimmered off the stained glass window bearing Moody’s name. And as she reached for the door handle she couldn’t help but think the heavy, carved wooden doors looked like something out of one of Tolkien’s books. She found them blessedly unlocked.

In quiet reverence Whitney followed the signs that pointed to the main sanctuary. When she walked through the doorway she gasped. Shiny pipes from the old-style organ filled the back wall, and chandeliers dangled from the arched ceiling. She closed her eyes and imagined what Sunday service must be like. Old ladies singing louder then they ought to, a man preaching with a zealous spirit at the center podium, and people shaking hands.

Had James and Ellen worshiped here? If only she knew.

With careful steps up the aisle she ran her hands over the backs of the chairs. She knew her actions were foolish, but for some reason she felt close to her ancestors—
the good ones
—here. Moody’s words had offered hope to Ellen during her captivity, maybe the church he founded could also set Whitney free.

She dropped into a seat, gripped the back of the chair in front of her, and rested her forehead on her outstretched arm. A few of her tears saturated into the carpet.

Owen said the news about Lewis had blown over, but what about next time the scandal resurfaced? And what if she did something that made him look bad again? Was she willing to spend the rest of her life performing?

No one would love her with all her baggage—least of which was her ruined family. At least no one solid and stable like Owen. Even if the story had cooled, his mother probably hadn’t. Something held him back. Maybe she banked too much on finding an established man, but she didn’t want to end up like her mother.

The sound of a rubber-bottomed shoe catching on the floor made Whitney open her eyes. Nate tripped a bit as he rounded down the aisle were she sat.

She buried her head in her hands.

In his warm and comforting manner, Nate sat down beside her, placed his hand between her shoulder blades and started to rub small circles.
Think about Owen. Think about…
But the kind gesture proved too much for her strung-out emotions. She turned, hid her face against his chest and broke into shoulder-wracking sobs.

“Hey.” He combed his fingers through her hair. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

He had her?
Whitney froze. Was seeking comfort in the arms of another man okay? She didn’t know where she stood in her relationship with Owen. They hadn’t discussed what their on hold status meant exactly. She needed to talk to Owen, and Nate’s compassionate spirit only tangled her thoughts more. It didn’t mean anything—Nate’s arms around her and the warm glow in his eyes as he watched her. It couldn’t.

Whitney pulled away. “You didn’t have to come looking for me.”

Nate sighed. “I told you I’d always drop everything to come find you.”

“How did you know to look for me here?”

He shrugged. “This is where I come when I need to think. Besides, with all the talk about Moody in Ellen and James’s story, I figured you’d be drawn here.” A soft smile pulled the corners of his lips.

“I wanted to feel closer to them. Maybe they sat right here once. I’d like to know I had a connection with the good side of my family.” She palmed her cheeks.

Nate scratched his jaw. “They might have, but it wouldn’t have been until they were both almost sixty.”

“Oh, no. You have that far-off look in your eyes.” Whitney couldn’t resist chuckling. “You’re going into history-man mode.” She nudged him in the ribs. “Go on, you’re biting your tongue in an effort to not spew information.”

“A lot of people come to the Historical Foundation asking about
that pretty building across the street
. So yes, I have a spiel.”

“Don’t let me stop you. Please, it’d help to get my mind off of my ancestors.”

With a roll of his eyes, he obliged her. “They dedicated this building in 1925, long after Moody’s death. The original church Moody founded in 1873 stood at the corner of Chicago and LaSalle Streets; well, founded after the one that burned down in the Great Fire. Spiel complete. Satisfied?”

“I’d work on your delivery. More passion. People like that sort of thing.”

“More passion,” he whispered. “I’ll try to remember.” Nate leaned closer and using his thumb he wiped under her eyes. “Sorry, I think it’s your make-up. There’s a black smudge.”

“I probably look terrible right now.”

The lovable dimple on his cheek came out. “Naw. You look great.” He hooked one of her long curls and tucked it behind her ear. “Will you tell me what got you so upset before?”

She gripped the back of the chair again. “I know Lewis lived past all the stuff we’re researching. We know that because my grandma’s alive and he lived long enough for her to remember him. He had kids. He must have gotten married. He had a secret tin of butterscotch.”

“Okay. Not sure I’m following.” Nate offered a reassuring squeeze to her shoulder.

“We know he lived on after all this, but what about Ellen? Did he … do you think he killed James and Ellen?”

Crossing his arms, Nate sat back. “What makes you think something terrible like that?”

“Lewis threatened he would. I’ve never heard of Ellen or James. Gran has never mentioned them. Don’t you think that’s weird? If they had lived through all the spying, she’d know.” Whitney cradled her head. “He murdered his own sister. And for what? Some anarchist ring that never went anywhere? I mean, last time I checked, Chicago still has a mayor.”

“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself. Think, Whitney, would your grandmother have known them? I don’t know my grandparent’s siblings. Do you?”

She shook her head, but still nibbled her lip.

Nate put his hand on top of hers. “And Lewis never threatened to kill them. I read the notes too, and he told his people to hand his sister to him if they caught her and he’d punish her. We don’t know what that means and we don’t know what his intentions were. That’s the difficult thing about history. It all comes down to an educated guess in the end.”

“Maybe I don’t want to know more. What if Lewis is worse than I thought?” She reached for her messenger bag and looped the strap over her shoulder. Gathering to her feet, she tried to press past Nate. “I’m not going to research anymore.”

He latched onto her wrist. “I think you owe it to your great-great-grandfather to believe the best about him.”

No way. Because finding out the truth would be worse than ignorance. So much worse.

Wrenching her arm from Nate, Whitney shoved past his knees. Once in the aisle she spun around. “I don’t owe Lewis anything.”

“You do until you’ve proven he’s guilty.”

“The reporter that wrote that article didn’t lie. I don’t need the proof in my face mocking me. Lewis
killed
people. He led them astray, and ruined their lives.”

Color raced to Nate’s cheeks. He stood. “You’re making too big a deal out of this Lewis stuff. Do you honestly believe his story affects who you are? If anything, let it change you for the good. No matter what you find out your ancestors did or didn’t do, learn from their lives. Then carve your own path.”

How dare he get angry with her and tell her what to do. “And if I find out everything I believe is true? If I find out Lewis is the scum that it sure looks like he is—then what?”

“You still don’t know his reasons for doing what he did. You can’t judge him without knowing his motives, and that’s something you may never find out.”

She dug her nails into the strap on her messenger bag. “There is never a right reason to do something wrong.
Never
.” Whitney spun on her heels and stormed out of the church sanctuary.

But she didn’t miss the haunted look in Nate’s eyes—hopeless—like she’d accused him of the worst atrocities imaginable instead of Lewis.

Whitney reached to where she thought her cell rested on her nightstand, missed it, moaned, and reached again. Fumbling to open the phone she scrolled down to Owen’s number and pressed to text him:
Feeling like one of the dead. Not going to make it tonight. Sorry.

Yanking her sheets up to her chin, she burrowed back into the warmth of her bed. Owen would be appalled if he knew she hadn’t moved from the spot all day. Even sick, he always went to work. But her muscles ached like she’d run a marathon and her throat itched as if she’d swallowed a gallon of bottle caps. Even at four in the afternoon with the sun bleeding through her flimsy curtains she couldn’t muster the energy to join the land of the living.

Not that she cared about missing the Bears game. Football—sports in general—wasn’t her thing. Owen understood, but when he called on her bus ride home yesterday, she didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to see him. They needed to talk because she still felt uneasy from how things ended at the Shedd. “On hold” wasn’t working. Their relationship needed some sort of resolution

She must have fallen back asleep, because
Bright Eyes
worked its way into a dream and made her jolt to sitting in bed. Fumbling for her phone, she grumbled about the shadows that crept across the hard wood floors of her studio apartment.

“Hello.” She kept her eyes closed.

“Whitney?” Nate’s voice came across laced with worry. “Are you okay?”

“Nate?” A groggy fog clouded her thoughts, his name was the best she could do.

“Are you angry about yesterday? Because I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry if I did.”

“Yesterday?” She cupped her free hand over her forehead.

“At the church.” He sighed on the phone. “I hope you aren’t mad at me. You didn’t show up tonight and I got worried. How would I know if something ever happened to you?”

She leaned and clicked on her light, then stifled a yawn. “I’m not coming to the Foundation tonight.”

“Because of me?”

Blinking, Whitney glanced around her clothing-littered room. “No, I was supposed to go with Owen to the Bears game.”

“But you’re not?” He sounded relieved.

She stumbled out of bed and toed into her fuzzy purple slippers. “I’m sick. I stayed home from work and everything.”

“Do you need something? What are your symptoms?”

“Scratchy throat, tired, achy—that sort of thing.” Energy gone, she dropped into her papasan chair near the television. Maybe watching the Bears game counted as supporting Owen.

“Is someone taking care of you? Have you eaten today?”

She tucked her feet beneath her. “No. I stayed in bed all day. But I’ll live. I’ll text you if I’m not going to come tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay. Talk to you later.”

An hour later someone rapped on her door.

She gathered a blanket around her shoulders, and shuffled to the door. Maybe Marta arrived home a few days early from her vacation.

“Are you itching to see King Kong or your Honda more?” Whitney hollered, then unbolted the door.

“King Kong? This I need to hear.” A sheepish smile graced Nate’s face. He lifted a grocery bag. “I come in peace. Sustenance and meds.”

She stayed in the doorway, hesitant to let him in.

He tilted his head. “I come in peace. I’ll leave once I’ve seen you eat something.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

He shrugged. “My stepmom’s a nurse. Sickness doesn’t put me off. Come on, just prove you’re on the mend and I’ll head home.” His smile disarmed her.

Whitney stepped back and made a sweeping gesture to welcome him into the apartment. He glanced around, slipped off his shoes, and crossed to the tiny table in the kitchen area.

She bolted the door, then turned around, popping her hands onto her hips. “You’re supposed to be at the Foundation right now. Who’s helping Rita?”

In his unhurried manner he withdrew a plastic container from the bag. “This will cure all your ailments.” He started to open her cabinets. “And don’t worry about Rita. When I told her you weren’t feeling well she sent me on my way with her blessing.”

Whitney stumbled across the room to help him, but he rested a hand on her shoulder and guided her back to the couch.

“You’re sick. Rest. I’ll take care of everything else.”

Seated sideways on the couch with her arms wrapped around her knees, she could keep an eye on him. “This is sweet of you, Nate.”

“No problem. First on the agenda is to get some food in you.” He dropped to his knees and rooted through her pots and pans. When he found the right size he dumped the contents of the soup container into it and set it cooking on the stove. “Have you ever had the chicken soup at Shawna’s Deli?”

Smiling for the first time today, she shook her head.

He pointed at her with his stirring spoon. “Well you’re in luck, because I swung by there on my way here and this is from a fresh batch. Just wait until it’s hot again, you’ll think you’ve gone to heaven.”

“What else do you have in your Mary Poppins’ bag of tricks?” Whitney jutted her chin toward the table.

After lading some magical soup into a bowl he carried it to the table. “Soup’s ready. Do you need my help to get to the table?”

“No.” She grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and draped it around her shoulders. When she took her seat, Nate placed the steaming elixir before her.

She leaned forward, letting the heat wash over her face. “Smells good.”

“You eat and I’ll show you my wares.” He fished into his bag. “I got this.” Nate held a red bottle of spray medicine. “I think you squirt it into your throat. But I bought Nyquil and Dayquil and cough drops too. And this.” He pulled out a small pint of ice cream. “My mom always gave us ice cream when we were sick. It’s chocolate marshmallow. Hope you like that flavor.”

She wanted to ask him about his mother but thought better of it. “I love chocolate marshmallow.”