“Just a photograph.” She sounded defensive, which set off warning bells inside his head. He clicked the small mechanism on the side before she could stop him. A tiny oval photograph was set inside. A young man.

“Who is this?”

“No one.” She tried to shut it, but he wouldn’t let her. “Stop. It’s just Sam.”

“One of your lovers?”

“No,” she said. “Sam Palmer. My brother.”

Winter was confused. “You told me you lived with a foster family.”

“I did. The Lanes. Sam and I were rescued from the earthquake together. He was a year older than me.”

He studied the photograph with greater interest. Perhaps there was some resemblance, hard to tell. Then he remembered what she told him when they were walking in Chinatown. Everyone I’ve loved is dead. “You said Sam was a year older than you. Is he . . .”

“Sam and I lived with the Lanes together in Baltimore until he turned eighteen. He joined the army in 1916 after President Wilson called for volunteers.”

“Did he end up in the war?”

“He got assigned to a cantonment in Virginia. He was there for six months, and was due to be deployed overseas when America entered the war. He was shot during a training exercise. Just a fluke accident.” In a blink, her eyes became bleary. “I didn’t take it well. We were inseparable. He was my only real family—you know, flesh and blood.”

“I’m sorry.”

She gave him a tight smile. “The Lanes were killed in a train derailment a month later. I was seventeen. They had some money—not a lot, but they weren’t poor. Only, they never officially adopted us. They thought they had, but Sam and I kept our surname. We called them Aunt and Uncle since we were little. And I think the surname confusion was mishandled in the paperwork. I don’t think they ever knew. Mr. Lane’s brother showed up for the funeral, and within two weeks, he’d fired the staff, sold the house, and dumped me off at an orphanage. This photograph is the only thing I was allowed to take with me. That and the clothes on my back.”

“Christ alive, Aida.”

“Good old Emmett Lane. Lovely man,” she said sourly. “I’d only met him once before. He never gave a damn about his own family, much less Sam and me, so it wasn’t a big surprise in hindsight.” She snapped the locket shut. “Anyway, I lived in the orphanage until I finished school. It wasn’t pleasant. When I turned eighteen, I got out of there as fast as I could and struck out on my own. Sam always told me to be independent, count on myself, no one else. And he never was afraid of my talents—he encouraged them.”

“Could he . . . do what you can do?”

She shook her head. “I started seeing ghosts when we moved to Baltimore. The Lanes just thought I was having nightmares about the earthquake, but Sam believed me. I didn’t know I had channeling skills until he introduced me to another medium before he joined the army. Mrs. Stone. She took me under her wing after I left the orphanage. Gave me a room for a few months, showed me how to make money with my talents. Got me on my feet.”

“And you’ve been on your own for ten years?”

“Never look back, always move forward—that’s what Sam always said. He wouldn’t want me feeling sorry for myself, so I don’t. I just keep getting up every day and moving along.” She smiled again, this time more genuinely.

“Live in the moment,” he said, repeating her sentiment from the night before.

“Exactly. Sam believed in the value of independence, and I honor his memory by appreciating today.”

So confident. But anyone could see the sadness beneath her bravado.

They were alike in a way. Both had lost their parents, and though he’d lost Paulina, Aida had not only lost a second set of parents, but her brother.

And then she was forced to support herself with no family help?

He tried to imagine Astrid in the same predicament and wondered how she’d fare. It made him feel ill to think about her utterly on her own. And even without the bootlegging fortune, even when they were just a fishing family, no man in his household would abandon a female. Not Astrid, not his mother, not Greta . . . not even Paulina. What kind of man does that? Not a real one.

Winter suddenly felt both more pity and respect for Aida.

“There. Now you know the story of my life,” she said.

He pushed her bangs back from her forehead and kissed her there, softly, lingering. When he pulled back, she met his gaze and something passed between them. Something that made his chest tighten. He just wasn’t sure what it was.

She quickly redirected the subject. “So, you were about to tell me what happened last night with the raids.”

Oh . . . that again. He’d only known Aida for a couple of weeks, and already he’d violated all sorts of rules with her—his father was probably rolling over in his grave. But when she looked up at him with those big brown eyes, all he could hear was her angry accusation during their fight on the ride back from Ju’s: I told you things about me.

And now she’d told him even more.

His father had been right, no doubt. It was a sensible warning. But Winter was tired of being sensible. He’d tell her everything, give her the combination to his basement vault and all his bank account numbers if she’d meet him in this hotel room every day. As long as she’d look up at him like this, trustful and expectant, genuinely curious about his work—not plugging her ears and pretending he was somebody other than he really was, like Paulina had.