Adam Seaver was sitting in her best chair.

Anna felt her mouth parch. Although she’d half expected to be interrupted in her work, she hadn’t thought it would be in her own chamber. But Seaver had wanted to see what she’d do-he’d said so himself. She swallowed two or three times before she could ask.

“How?”

“You should nail up that kitchen window. It’s too easy to reach in and shove the bar from the door. Then up the stairs, just as you yourself came. But not before I watched you with Miller.” He pulled an unopened bottle from his pocket, cut the red wax from the stopper, opened it. “I’ll pour my own drinks, thanks. What is the verse? After she gave him drink, Jael went unto him with a peg of the tent and smote the nail into his temple?”

“Near enough.”

“A mistake teaching women to read. But then, if you couldn’t read, you couldn’t figure your books, and you wouldn’t have such a brisk business as you do.” He drank. “A double-edged sword. But as nice a bit of needlework as I’ve ever seen from a lady.”

Keep breathing, Anna. You’re not done yet. “What now?” She thought of the pistol in the trunk by the bed, the knife under her pillow. They might as well have been at the bottom of the harbor.

“A bargain. You’re a widow with a tavern, I’m the agent of an important man. You also have a prime piece of real estate, and an eye on everything that happens along here. And, it seems, an eye to advancement. I think we can deal amiably enough, and to our mutual benefit.”

At that moment, Anna almost wished Seaver would just cut her throat. She’d never be free of this succession of men, never able to manage by herself. The rage welled up in her, as it had never done before, and she thought she would choke on it. Then she remembered the paper hidden in her shoe, the document that made the tavern and its business wholly her own, and how she’d fought for it. She’d be damned before she handed it over to another man.

But she saw Seaver watching her carefully and it came to her. Perhaps like Miller not immediately grasping that the obvious next move for him was civil life and nearly legitimate trade-with all its fat skimming-she was not ambitious enough. Instead of mere survival, relying on the tavern, she could parlay it into more. Working with Seaver, who, after all, was only the errand boy of one of the most powerful-and dangerous-men in New England, she might do more than survive. She saw the beginning of a much wider, much richer future.

The whole world open to her, if she kept sharp. If she could be better than she was.

She went over to the mantel, took down a new bottle, opened it, poured herself a drink. Raised the glass.

She would pour her own drinks, and Seaver would pour his own.

She would manage.

“To our mutual benefit,” she toasted.

THE DARK ISLAND

BY BRENDAN DUBOIS

Boston Harbor

She was waiting for me when I came back from the corner store and I stopped, giving her a quick scan. She had on a dark blue dress, black sensible shoes, and a small blue hat balanced on the back of thick brown hair. She held a small black leather purse in her hands, like she knew she was in a dangerous place and was frightened to lose it. On that last part, she was right, for it was evening and she was standing in Scollay Square, with its lights, horns, music, honky-tonks, burlesque houses, and hordes of people with sharp tastes who came here looking for trouble, and more often than not, found it.

I brushed past a group of drunk sailors in their dress blues as I got up to my corner, the sailors no doubt happy that with the war over, they didn’t have to worry about crazed kamikazes smashing into their gun turrets, burning to death out there in the Pacific. They were obviously headed to one of the nearby bars. There were other guys out there as well, though I could always identify the ones who were recently discharged vets: they moved quickly, their eyes flicking around, and whenever there was a loud horn or a backfire from a passing truck, they would freeze in place.

And then, of course, they would unfreeze. There were years of drinking and raising hell to catch up on.

I shifted my paper grocery sack from one hand to the other and approached the woman, touched the brim of my fedora with my free hand. “Are you waiting for me?” I asked.

Her face was pale and frightened, like a young mom seeing blood on her child for the very first time. “Are you Billy Sullivan?”

“Yep.”

“Yes, I’m here to see you.”

I shrugged. “Then follow me, miss.”

I moved past her and opened the wooden door that led to a small foyer, and then upstairs, the wooden steps creaking under our footfalls. At the top, a narrow hallway led off, three doors on each side, each door with a half-frame of frosted glass. Mine said, B. Sullivan, Investigations, and two of the windows down the hallway were blank. The other three announced a watchmaker, a piano teacher, and a press agent.

I unlocked the door, flicked on the light, and walked in. There was an old oak desk in the center with my chair, a Remington typewriter on a stand, and two solid filing cabinets with locks. In front of the desk were two wooden chairs, and I motioned my guest to the nearest one. A single window that hadn’t been washed since Hoover was president overlooked the square and its flickering neon lights.

“Be right back,” I said, ducking through a curtain off to the side. Beyond the curtain was a small room with a bed, radio, easy chair, table lamp, and icebox. A closed door led to a small bathroom that most days had plenty of hot water. I put a bottle of milk away, tossed the bread on a counter next to the toaster and hot plate, and returned to the office. I took off my coat and hat, and hung both on a coat rack.

The woman sat there, leaning forward a bit, like she didn’t want her back to be spoiled by whatever cooties resided in my office. She looked at me and tried to smile. “I thought all private detectives carried guns.”

I shook my head. “Like the movies? Roscoes, heaters, gats, all that nonsense? Nah, I saw enough guns the last couple of years. I don’t need one, not for what I do.”

At my desk, I uncapped my Parker pen and grabbed a legal pad. “You know my name, don’t you think you should return the favor?”

She nodded quickly. “Of course. The name is Mandy Williams…I’m from Seattle.”

I looked up. “You’re a long way from home.”

Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. “I know, I know…and it’s all going to sound silly, but I hope you can help me find something.”

“Something or someone?” I asked.

“Something,” she said. “Something that means the world to me.”

“Go on.”

“This is going to sound crazy, Mister Sullivan, so please…bear with me, all right?”

“Sure.”

She took a deep breath. “My fiancé, Roger Thompson, he was in the army and was stationed here, before he was shipped overseas.”

I made a few notes on the pad, kept my eye on her.

“We kept in touch, almost every day, writing letters back and forth, sending each other mementos. Photos, souvenirs, stuff like that…and he told me he kept everything I sent to him in a shoe box in his barracks. And I told him I did the same…kept everything that he sent to me.”

Now she opened her purse, took out a white tissue, which she dabbed at her eyes. “Silly, isn’t it…it’s been nearly a year…I know I’m not making sense, it’s just that Roger didn’t come back. He was killed a few months before the war was over.”

My hand tightened on the pen. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Oh, what can you do, you know? And ever since then, well, I’ve gone on, you know? Have even thought about dating again…and then…”

The tissue went back to work and I waited. So much of my professional life is waiting, waiting for a phone call, waiting for someone to show up, waiting for a bill to be paid.