Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
It was a beautiful evening, so I decided to take a walk. The matchmaker’s office was on the ground floor of a block filled with beautiful brownstones, and the Upper West Side was one of my favorite neighborhoods that I could never afford. I was on the corner of Broadway and Eighty-First Street, and Birdie lived somewhere on Eighty-Third Street, which could be close by.
I really shouldn’t.
I’d been so good lately.
But . . . I’m already here . . .
What harm could it do just to pass by?
I’d taken an Uber uptown because I’d been running late, but I could grab the train back downtown from a few different nearby stations. So it wasn’t like I’d really be going out of my way if I strolled for a bit in any direction. I could just walk up Eighty-Third, and if I happened to pass Birdie’s house on my way to the train, then that was fate. I remembered her house number, only because it was my parents’ anniversary, February 10, or 210, but I had no idea what block it crossed with. So it really was up to chance whether I passed it or not. If I reached a train before I came upon Birdie’s house, then I’d get to see her house. Big whoop-de-do.
Yet . . . it felt so wrong.
Especially as I turned down Eighty-Third Street and caught the number on the first house I passed: 230.
Oh my God.
Eighty-Third Street ran forever. It had to be at least a half mile on the west side alone, from Central Park down to near the Hudson River . . . yet the very first block I turned onto happened to be the one that Birdie lived on.
It sort of freaked me out a little bit.
My blood started to pump faster with every step.
228.
226.
224.
It was one of the next eight or so houses up ahead.
Damn, the neighborhood was really nice. Birdie lived on a tree-lined street of brownstones worth some serious money. I didn’t know why, but I had envisioned her living in an apartment building, cramped for space like the rest of us in the rat race, not in such a luxurious home. These things went for millions. Even if they didn’t own it and only rented a floor out, it would still be big bucks.
I started to slow down as I counted the addresses.
220.
218.
216.
Birdie’s house was only three more away.
When I came right upon hers, my heart started to beat so fast. I slowed my walking speed and tried to get a look inside the windows. But it was about ten steps up to the front door from the sidewalk, and I couldn’t really see much from down here. Disappointment came over me. A few steps after passing the staircase that led up to Birdie’s front door, I forced myself to stop staring like I’d been casing the place for a potential robbery. As I looked down, something shiny caught my eye out of my peripheral vision, sitting on the bottom step of the stairs.
Is that?
No . . . it couldn’t be.
I looked around—no one seemed to be paying any attention. So I backed up and bent down to take a closer look.
My eyes widened.
Oh my God.
A silver hair barrette was lying on the bottom step, the kind a little girl would wear to clip back her hair when her father sucked at making braids. And . . . it had a silver butterfly on it.
Butterflies.
Birdie.
There was no doubt that the two went together.
Without thinking, I picked it up.
Only . . . what the hell was I going to do with it once it was in my hand?
I supposed putting it somewhere safer would be the right thing to do. The pretty little clip could just blow away out here on the last step. Or, at the very least, someone could step on it and break it.
It didn’t look like anyone was home in the Maxwell house anyway. I could just leave it at her front door.
Yeah . . . that was a good idea.
The fact that I might get a better look inside the windows from up at the top of the stairs was just a coincidence. I was doing the right thing, after all, making sure Birdie’s little barrette didn’t get broken. She could be attached to this thing, for all I knew. Glancing around again, I noticed there was also a door underneath the main staircase, a few steps down from ground level. Maybe the Maxwells lived in the basement apartment? Though my gut didn’t think they did.
So I took a deep breath and started up the brownstone stairs. My knees wobbled a bit as I climbed to the top one. God, I really was nervous.
From the sidewalk, I hadn’t realized how tall the front doors were—the double set of ornate glass doors had to be at least ten feet, maybe more. Looking to my left, I could see right into the front window, which gave me a partial view of a big living room. A man’s suit jacket was lying over the top of a chair across from the sofa, and I wondered if it belonged to Sebastian. I stood there staring for a long moment, trying to pick up any small details I could see—the titles of the books on the bookshelf, the photos inside the frames on the mantel—until suddenly the curtain moved.