She was floating. Underneath her she could feel the machinery of a car propelling her forward, but why was she in a car? Who was driving? She tried to move her mouth, to ask who was driving her and why, but her mouth wouldn't cooperate. It felt like it was full of cottonwool. Her eyelids were so heavy she couldn't even open them. There was a hand on a knee. It felt familiar, she thought, but it was not Richard. Jimmy? Whomever it was wanted to comfort her, she thought. She tried to move her hand, thinking she could grab the man's hand, but she couldn't. It felt like she was hugging herself and she couldn't stop. Why couldn't she move her arms? Panic rose in her throat and she felt like she might choke on it. What was happening to her? Was this a dream?

What happened today? Why did she feel drunk? Her head felt like she'd down a couple of bottles of whiskey. She forced herself to recall the day. She'd gotten up. She'd dressed in a green linen skirt, a peach and green striped blouse, and her leather sandals. She could feel them on her feet. Richard had been distracted, had barely kissed her goodbye, but he had made breakfast and fed Tommy. Then she and Tommy went to the post office and the library. When they came back it was time to feed Tommy again, so she started making sandwiches and...

Tommy.

Oh my god, Tommy was alone. She couldn't think of where Richard and Jimmy were, but they weren't home. She tried desperately to get the man's attention, to try and signal that Tommy was alone and was too little to be left without anyone to watch him. The tiredness pulled her down even as she tried to swim up, and her head was soon so heavy she couldn't hold it up.

***

His eternal watchfulness meant he saw everything, and he was especially watchful over the house that contained Clara and Tommy. Their Model-T was parked by the service porch. Clara always cheated it over so it was easier to get Tommy out of the passenger side door. He'd have to look to make sure she hadn't let Tommy eat in the car again. Who knew jam could get into so many places? He wondered the day that he cleaned the jam out of the upholstery of his car if Tommy had managed to get any of it into his mouth. A box sat on the service porch. Grocery delivery, but why hadn't Clara brought it in? Well, it was late enough that Tommy should be up from his nap. They were probably on the beach and Clara didn't realize her order had arrived.

It was when his eye trailed up to the front of the house that it felt like his heart stopped beating in his chest. The front door was ajar. Just slightly open. Clara wouldn't leave the door open. She just wouldn't. There were also tire tracks in the grass.

"Jimmy," he growled out while pulling the Glock from his waistband.

Jimmy had indulged in several glasses of bourbon at lunch, and mixed with the disappearing adrenaline from earlier he was feeling pleasantly numb. Numb was a state he now chased at all times. Richard was already out of the Ford when Jimmy realized the door was open. Fuck, Tommy, Clara, he thought, his heart dropping.

Richard feared what he was going to see before he even walked on the porch. Angela laying dead and pale on top of her lover, in the room next to the one where he now slept with Clara. Richard saw it even as his eye swept the house, looking for anything else out of place. He pushed the vision away.

Even in their terror they worked methodically. Each had their gun out, and they kept each other in view as they entered the house and started sweeping the rooms. They both saw the metal plant stand by the front door was turned over, the one that only had survived Jimmy's rage because it couldn't be burned. Nothing was amiss in the sunroom, living room, or dining room but the kitchen made both of their anxiety increase. Clara's purse sat in a kitchen chair. Two glasses of lemonade with melted ice sat on the table, next to a library copy of The Black Moth. A box from the grocer was on the counter, half unpacked. Also on the counter were two plates with Saratoga chips and half made ham sandwiches. A plate of ham lay abandoned on the counter. Richard touched it. Warm. Clara had been making lunch when something stopped her, and it had occurred a while ago. Where were they, he thought, and had to start breathing through his mouth because the press of his growing panic made breathing through his nose impossible.

Upstairs, Jimmy went to Tommy's room. Tommy's shoes looked like he had kicked them off in a hurry. A pile of library books sat on his little table, but one was in front of his toy chest and some toys were on the floor. Jimmy didn't see the goofy cow Tommy slept with. Thank god, Jimmy thought, wherever Tommy is he had his cow.

Nothing looked amiss in their bedroom, Richard thought. He forced himself to focus. Was there a simple reason Clara had left the beach house with Tommy in the middle of making lunch, leaving her purse and the car? The sound of the surf banging on the sand outside the windows made his stomach turn. Could Tommy have gotten away from her and gotten into the ocean, and Clara followed? No, he thought, even here on this quiet part of the beach swimmers and beach goers were all over, trying to escape the heat. Someone would have seen. There would still be chaos if that had happened.

"Richard?" a little voice called from underneath the bed. "Can I come out now?"

"Tommy!" Richard fell to his knees at the same time as a chubby little hand reached out from under the bed. Pulling Tommy out he checked the boy instinctively. Tommy looked physically fine, but Richard didn't miss the bright red eyes and dried mess on his face. Without thinking he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and tried to wipe Tommy's face, but the boy clung to him so fiercely that it was difficult to get to his face.

"Jimmy!" Richard growled out.

"She didn't come back," Tommy said, crying. "She yelled Game but she never came back." Tommy sobbed out the rest of the story.

Jimmy walked into the room. Tommy was clinging to Richard and crying.

"Clara was downstairs. Mmm. Tommy was supposed to wash his hands. He heard her open the door. Mmm. Then she screamed for him. To play the game. And was screaming. When someone took her away."

Jimmy wanted to look away from the horror on Richard's face.

Someone snatched Clara right from this house. Someone did something to make her scream while they took her. Jimmy wanted to run to his room and take every paper packet of heroin he had hidden in his room. He wanted to crawl down a bottle of bourbon and never emerge.

Angela was dead. Manny fucking Horvitz had just come into this house, his house, and killed Angela. Angela who never hurt anyone on purpose in her life. And now someone had just come snatched Clara while she made Tommy's lunch. Clara, who was only here because he hadn't been capable of keeping Angela alive.

Tommy's chubby little arms were wrapped tightly around Richard's neck, his face buried in his shoulder, his little sobs filling the room. Jesus, thank god Clara had taught Tommy to hide.

He looked at Richard's face again, and for the first time in a long time the self-loathing and longing for death was replaced with rage. Why the fuck did these goddamn people think they had the right to come into his house and kill his wife, snatch his sister, terrorize his child?

A knock sounded on the door below, and then they heard a female voice with a British accent call "hello, Clara? Are you home? The door is open?"

Jimmy and Richard looked at each other. Unbeknownst to each other, they were having the same thought. They each recognized that voice.

Pulling out his Glock, Jimmy crept to the landing, leaving Richard barricaded with Tommy. A young woman wearing a lavender dress covered in white embroidery with a white merry widow hat stood in the foyer, looking uncertain. The edges of her dark brown bob peeped out from underneath the brim of the hat.

The woman looked up at the stairs when Jimmy moved. When he saw her face it removed all doubt from his mind.

"Rose Grenville?"

Someone was picking her up. She couldn't use her arms to steady herself-why? Why were her arms trapped against her body? The sun was warm on her face, but she still couldn't force her eyes to open. Her head lolled on the man's shoulder and for a moment she thought she was back at her mother's funeral, that she was a little girl who started crying when her mother's coffin went down the aisle toward the hearse. Jimmy's sweaty hand was in hers, but someone else picked her up. Daddy? Why couldn't she remember?

Now she was inside a building. Even with her eyes closed she knew it was large and very clean. The Ritz? Was someone taking her home? Home would be nice. She longed for the thick, clean sheets on her bed by the windows that always let in a sea breeze. Maybe Jimmy and Richard would be in the suite and she wouldn't have to be alone...

No, she didn't live at the Ritz. She lived in Angela and Jimmy's guest room with Richard. Now she fell asleep entwined with Richard while the sea beat outside their window. So where was she? Wherever it was they were the cleaning staff was a little over enthusiastic in their use of bleach. It smelled like Margaret's house when she cleaned it after Emily's polio diagnosis.

Suddenly she was deposited on a hard surface with some sort of scratchy linen covering it.

The click of heels on a hard floor. A woman, Clara thought. Good.

"This is Clara Thompson?"

Clara didn't understand why this woman knew her name, but then she realized it wasn't right. Why? Once more she tried to move her hands, and when she did her little finger caught against the diamond on the side of her engagement ring.

I'm married, she thought. For a horrible moment Darcy's face swam up in her memory and terror clutched at her. Had she married Darcy?

No, no of course not. Darcy was long gone. She could see Richard as they stood in front of the minister at that ridiculous little chapel. Relief flooded her. It was Richard. She'd married Richard.

She tried to force her mouth open. She tried to speak. Pushing her tongue on the roof of her mouth she finally felt her cheeks.

"Clara Harrow," she said as best she could.

"Is she trying to say something?"

"Clara. Harrow," she repeated.

"Well, Rose Malley now but Clara still calls me Rose Grenville. It's quite alright, though, since I'm fairly certain I'll think of her as Clara Thompson when we are little old ladies who've been married for decades! How are you, Jimmy? I was so dreadfully sorry to hear about your wife. I never had the chance to meet her, but we wrote a few times and I know how much Clara adored her. Is Clara here?"

Fuck, Jimmy thought. For one wild moment he thought Rose was going to tell him Clara was with her, that this was all just a misunderstanding.

"Richard! You can bring Tommy down," Jimmy said, and moved around Rose to close and bolt the front door.

Richard moved slowly and heavily down the stairs since Tommy was still attached to him.

As Richard came into view Rose Malley, probably for the first time in her life, rudely stared.

Jesus Christ, she was a fucking battlefield nurse, Jimmy thought. And there was no chance that Clara had not talked about Richard's injury when she saw Rose in May. Why the hell was she staring at Richard like that?

"Richard, this is Clara's friend Lady Rose Malley."

"Is Clara. Mmm. With you?" Richard asked, hope rising in his chest that somehow, somehow Clara was safe.

"No," Rose breathed out. "Why? Where's Clara?"

Jimmy and Richard looked at each other.

"The man took her!" Tommy said from Richard's shoulder.

"Jimmy?" Rose asked.

"We don't know. We just know someone has her."

Rose fought to maintain her composure. She started to speak, but then glanced over at Tommy. "She's in danger? But you are going to find her?"

Jimmy and Richard looked at each other.

"Who will care for your son?" Rose asked. "Because from Clara's letters I know she's upended her life because she doesn't think you have any reliable alternatives."

Fuck, Jimmy thought. He and Richard could hardly put Tommy in the back of the Ford while they searched for Clara. If, when he corrected himself, they found Clara she'd kill him if he left Tommy with Gillian.

"Let me take him. My sister Dorothy and I are visiting a Great-Aunt who lives on Cape May. I'm here because we hoped to convince Clara to bring Tommy and join us for a few days. My grandmother is there, and she's very much looking forward to meeting Tommy. Clara was going to bring him and your wife to Newport, when..."

When Angela was murdered, Jimmy thought. He should have insisted Clara take Tommy and get out of town until everything was over then. But this would keep Tommy safe. No one would look for Tommy ensconced in some rich old lady's estate.

Rose approached Richard and Tommy. "Tommy, would you like to spend a few days with me? I promise we will have ever so much fun. There's a lovely boat so we can go out to sea."

Richard felt her staring at the scar on his throat as she spoke to Tommy, and even in his current state of terror it made him uncomfortable.

"Do you know about mermaids?" Tommy asked.

Rose thought for a moment, and then realized. "Clara's stories about the mermaids? Of course. She's been telling them to me since we were girls in school together. I always liked the sister who built a house out of oyster shells."

Jimmy went upstairs to pack for Tommy.

"Your throat and voice, that wasn't caused by the initial injury, was it?" Rose asked gently. She knew it wasn't the time, but she had to know. Clara had said something about Richard's voice, but Rose hadn't thought, not really, but now what she was thinking...

Richard looked down at his hands. "No. Mmm. Trying to save me on the field. They performed..."

"An emergency tracheotomy," Rose finished. "And they damaged your vocal cords accidentally?"

Richard nodded. "Yes, Lady Malley."

"Please, here in America I'm simply Mrs. Malley. No one has time for the other nonsense. But you are the husband of my dearest friend, you must call me Rose." Rose hesitated, and then reached out and put her hand over his. "My father calls Clara our Fierce Little American. She'll be fine."

Something about Rose Malley's hand on his felt...familiar, he thought, but in his haze of terror he thought it was just her similarity to Clara in dress and manner.

Clara had to be okay, Rose thought. It would be altogether too cruel if after everything she only had a fortnight with her husband. The poor man had been through enough; he couldn't be a widower in his mid-twenties.

Jimmy took Rose and Tommy to the train station while Richard prepared for what was next. He pulled his gun bag from the back of the armoire in their room and started loading. Done before Jimmy returned, his mind flooded with the nightmare he'd had since the fall day when the d'Alessios had tried to snatch Clara off the street in front of the Ritz.

That one day Clara would scream for him and he wouldn't be there to hear it.

He had to do something. He pulled the small notebook from his pocket and thought about where to start. Finally he made a decision.

"BARclay 5786" answered a voice that wordlessly declared I'm busy, important, and have little time for your foolishness .

"Meyer Lansky?" Richard managed to say.

Meyer ashed his cigarette, and looked over in the gambling room where Charlie stood. "Richard Harrow?"

"Someone. Took Clara. From Jimmy's house. It was. Violent," Richard barely managed to whisper the words. Saying them made it horrifyingly real.

Meyer waved towards Benny, who tapped Charlie on the shoulder.

"Who has her?" Meyer asked.

"I. Don't know. Maybe the butcher. Mmm. But it could be..."

Anyone who is either angry at Darmody or angry at Thompson, Meyer thought. There was a long list of people who might consider Clara's life as forfeit due to their actions.

"Why are you calling instead of Darmody or Thompson?"

"She's my. Wife," Richard answered.

Meyer blinked but didn't say anything. "Charlie and I will see what we can find out."

"What the fuck, Meyer? I was right in the middle of fleecing a real numbskull."

Meyer drummed his fingers against the desk thoughtfully. "I just learned two very interesting pieces of information. Someone kidnapped Clara Thompson from Darmody's house. And Clara Thompson is now Clara Harrow."

"She married him, huh?" Charlie lit a cigarette. "Who the fuck do you think Darmody or Thompson pissed off enough to go after her?"

"It's quite the list. We should see what we can find out."

Good, Charlie thought. Clara was a bitch, but he had to like any classy broad who could curse him in Italian. "Sure."

"Could be valuable information to a lot of people. Besides, if I were Harrow, I'd be going out of my mind right now," Meyer said, flicking his cigarette and sneaking a look at Charlie. If it were Charlie missing, the body count would rise across the Eastern Seaboard. He felt like Harrow was about to leave quite the bloody trail in his wake.

"Perhaps we should think about how to approach AR with this news." He thought for a moment. "Both pieces of news."

Back in Atlantic City Richard prepared for another call.

Capone answered the phone, and for once Richard was glad.

"It's Richard. Harrow. Mmm. Someone took. Clara from Jimmy's."

Fuck, Capone thought. "What about Jimmy's kid?"

"She yelled. For Tommy. To hide," Richard answered. "Have you. Heard anything?"

"I'll ask around. Me and Torrio, we'll see what we can find out," Al promised. He didn't fucking like Clara Frankenstein, but he really didn't fucking like this new idea that families were available for the taking. Jimmy Irish's wife was already dead, and now Clara had been taken from his house while she watched his kid? Fuck that. Al didn't even let himself imagine if it were Mae, or Malfalda, or God forbid Sonny taken from their home.

He'd burn all of Chicago down. Torrio wasn't there for Al to tell him, but Capone started thinking about who was going to get some questions asked of them.

Richard was standing in the hall. As soon as he heard Jimmy's car he went outside with his bag.

"You know. Where we have to. Go first," Richard said.

Jimmy swallowed, and nodded. He wasn't looking forward to it.

Red wine. Angela loved it, Clara drank it happily and paid for it later. Ah, though, to have had so much Angela was having to take her shoes off for her. How embarrassing. Now hands were unbuttoning the back of her blouse. Had she gotten sick? The blouse was pulled over her head.

Madame Jenet mocked her white bra and tap pants. She already knew she wanted Richard to touch her, to desire her, so she went to Blatt's for more sophisticated things and couldn't decide what to buy. Gillian was there, and whipped things on and off her body, like this. Clara hated it.

Does he like tawdry Gillian asked.