“For God’s sake, you can’t even do that right.” But Mr. Childs’s angry words weren’t directed at Lillian. They were directed at his sister. He let out an ugly snort. “Danforth pursued a penniless working girl over you, an heiress? How Father would be laughing at this entire situation. At you.”
Miss Helen cried out. “You are too cruel, Childs. Mother, make him stop.”
Mr. DeWitt hadn’t been referring to the letters. In her panic, Lillian had opened up the wound she’d most wanted to avoid.
Miss Winnie and Mrs. Frick exchanged a glance, as if they weren’t surprised by the news. Poor Miss Helen, always the disappointment.
“That is not the deception I was referring to,” said Mr. DeWitt.
The family turned and stared at him. “What else?” asked Mrs. Frick.
“Miss Lilly,” asked Mr. DeWitt, “do you go by any other aliases?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“We’ve been informed that you are not who you appear to be. That you are also known as”—he glanced down—“Miss Angelica Carter. Or better known, simply, as Angelica.”
Lillian could tell by the way he was eyeing her that he knew exactly who Angelica was, had seen the suggestive illustrations in the press. Mrs. Frick and Miss Winnie simply looked confused, but Miss Helen sat frozen, mouth open. “The model?” she said.
“Yes,” answered Mr. DeWitt. “The artists’ model.”
All of her secrets were now out in the open, and for a brief moment she felt a flash of abandon, of being able to be exactly who she was and stop hiding. But that was quickly replaced by panic. A sliver of hope lay with Miss Helen, whose familiarity with the art world might make her more understanding of the role that models played in the creative process, less scandalized by her prior career. But deep in her heart she knew that only a few art collectors—Mrs. Whitney among them, as she was also an artist—entertained such liberal views. It would be one more reason to distrust her, not that she needed more reasons after seeing Mr. Danforth’s letters. Still, Lillian addressed Miss Helen, not the private detective. “I was a model, yes.”
Mr. Childs threw back his head and laughed. “All this time we’ve had the infamous Angelica under our roof? Wait a minute, didn’t Father say she was the model for the woman above the carriageway? Now standing right before us, in the flesh. That’s delicious.”
“Childs!” protested Mrs. Dixie.
“This is not a laughing matter,” said Mrs. Frick. “What on earth have you done, Helen?”
Miss Helen studied Lillian as if she were one of the portraits on the wall, taking in her shoulders, her waist, her hair, her feet. “You posed? For money?”
“I was an artists’ muse in the past. But I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Is it true that you murdered your landlord’s wife?” Mr. Childs was fully enjoying himself now, secure in his position in the family once again, having brought his sister to her knees.
“What on earth?” It was Miss Winnie’s turn to go pale.
This was all happening too quickly. Lillian couldn’t explain fast enough, not with so many people in the room staring at her. There was so much ground to cover: her mother’s death, Mr. Watkins’s proposition, Mrs. Watkins’s lifeless hand, the blood on the rug. The words wouldn’t come.
Mr. DeWitt grew weary of waiting for her response. “After I was informed of Miss Lillian’s true identity, I followed up with the investigation into the death of a Mrs. Watkins of West Sixty-Seventh Street. It does appear that Miss Lillian, or Angelica, is wanted for questioning in that case.”
Who had informed him? Most likely not Mr. Danforth, as she couldn’t imagine Mr. Childs confiding in him about the family’s current turmoil. He was an outsider, after all. It had to have been someone in the household. The only one who could possibly know about her was Mr. Graham. She remembered how he’d come to her in the basement with a warning. Could he have turned her in? With his job in jeopardy, would he have offered up what he knew in return for some kind of reward?
But that was the least of her worries. “I’m innocent, I swear.”
But the list of coincidences, all connected to Lillian, was impossible to surmount. She could tell by the looks on everyone’s faces, ranging from dismay to horror, betrayal to mockery. She was done for.
“What happens now?” asked Miss Helen.
“I’ll take her to the police station, and they’ll start an investigation,” said Mr. DeWitt.