In the Shadows

stopped him. No one ever did. At the dance hall, no one stopped

him as he ran himself ragged, the syncopated rhythms of the rag-

time beating out any other thoughts. He kissed a pretty girl who

picked his pocket. He let her. He laughed and danced and did

everything to excess and almost — almost — managed to forget.

When he stumbled home that night, he had just enough wits

about him to do so quietly, tipping the elevator attendant extra as

they reached the penthouse floor. Thom planned to slink down

the hall toward his room but froze when he saw lights on in

his father’s office, leaking out beneath the door. What was his

father doing home? He was never home. The last Thom had heard,

his father was in Germany. Before that, London. Before that,

Chicago.

Anywhere but here, anywhere but where his favorite son

lay ill and his other son frantically tried to make it better, or

numbly tried to escape when it wasn’t. Edward Wolcott was a man

who fixed problems. When the doctors had made it clear that

Charles would never be fixed, well, he’d moved on to things that

could.

Muffled voices drifted toward Thom, and he walked to

the office door, leaning his head against the frame. At first Thom

was confused, sluggishly failing to process what he was hearing.

One of the men sounded like his father, but not the father he knew.

Gone was the cold, imperious authority. Gone was the razor-sharp

efficiency. His father sounded . . . scared. Pleading.

“... surely something else can be arranged. There are

all sorts of boys for the taking, anywhere you look in this city.”

“The nature of a sacrificial offering is that sacrifice is required.”

This other voice was calm, detached but pleasant. A woman.

Thom scowled. Why was his father bringing a woman here? If