A few days later, trapped in the persona of “Sweetheart Annie,” I endured a charity gala hosted by the Mayor’s wife. The station manager saw PR; I saw torture. Borrowing a dated but decent lavender dress from Martha, my washerwoman neighbor, I felt like an extra who stumbled onto the wrong set amidst the glittering, perfumed, champagne-fueled hypocrisy.

Hiding in a corner with watered-down juice, I observed the true upper crust. Men in bespoke tuxedos discussed stocks, real estate, and cars I couldn’t afford in ten lifetimes. Women, draped in jewels, gossiped about Paris fashions and political scandals.

“Miss Sweetheart Annie? Fancy meeting you here.” A deep, magnetic voice jolted me back to reality.

Kevin Vanderbilt. He stood there, impossibly elegant in a dark grey suit, collar slightly open, holding a glass of amber whiskey. His eyes, deep and assessing, held a flicker of amusement.

“Mr. Van-Vanderbilt.” I stammered, trying to sound pleasantly surprised, like Annie should. Inside, alarms blared. Him again?

“Indeed.” He nodded, his gaze sweeping over me, sharp enough to pierce my borrowed finery. “I occasionally tune into your program, Miss Annie.”

“R-really? What an honor.” I managed a dry smile, palms sweating. A railroad tycoon listening to my drivel? Unlikely.

“Your voice is… memorable,” he sipped his drink, eyes drifting to a car passing outside. “Though, I sometimes feel such gentleness is… out of step with these roaring, fast-paced times.” He paused, then turned back, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. “Speaking of speed, do you happen to have any interest in automobiles, Miss Annie? The new Packard Twin-Six engine, for instance. What are your thoughts on its performance?”

My heart skipped a beat! The Twin-Six? He was testing me! My brain raced, but my face remained a mask of sweet innocence. “Packard? Is that… the very luxurious one from the advertisements? Oh, I know nothing about cars, Mr. Vanderbilt. They all just seem… very fast?” I blinked, feigning utter ignorance, while silently cursing the engine’s known flaws – strong low-end torque but weak high-revs and dodgy cooling. Good for impressing rich fools, not for real driving!

Vanderbilt held my gaze for a long moment, his eyes seeming to see right through my act. I forced myself to meet his stare, plastering Annie’s harmless smile on my face. Finally, he looked away, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

“Is that so? Perhaps I was mistaken.” He swirled his whiskey, his tone unreadable. “Forgive the intrusion, Miss Annie. Enjoy your evening.” He turned and melted back into the crowd, leaving me cold and shaken.

He knew something. Or suspected. That question wasn’t random. This man wasn’t just powerful; he was dangerously perceptive. Add him to the list of threats: gangsters, cops, and now, a railroad tycoon with eyes like scalpels. My double life felt less like a tightrope walk and more like dancing on dynamite.

Vanderbilt vanished from my immediate vicinity after the gala, but the unease lingered. Then, things with Knight K got weirder.

His gifts and telegrams became more frequent, almost daily. Still expensive, but the style shifted. Less feminine jewelry, more… specific items. A meticulously detailed, handcrafted silver Duesenberg Model J replica. A lavishly bound book titled ‘An Illustrated History of Early Motor Racing’.

Holding that book, my skin prickled. What was K playing at? Did he think Sweetheart Annie, reciter of Shelley and Keats, cared about these metal beasts? Or… were these gifts not meant for Annie at all?

His telegrams grew more unsettling. The encouraging words remained, but laced with cryptic warnings.

“Heard the New York night wind grows chill. Sweetheart Annie must keep warm, and also… avoid tumultuous places.”

Tumultuous places? My Brooklyn neighborhood? Or… somewhere else?

Another was even more direct: “Moonlight is beautiful, yet dark alleys hide danger. Heard a night bird flies through the steel forest. Urge it to guard its wings, lest it be dazzled by fireflies and fall into the spider’s web.”

My coffee cup nearly slipped from my hand. Night bird? Guard its wings? That was about Nightingale! How could he know?! Only Finn knew! Did Finn slip up? Impossible.

A chill snaked up my spine. Knight K, my anonymous ATM, suddenly felt menacing. Who was he? How much did he know? Were these gifts and warnings concern? Or control? Or a threat?

I tried tracing him through the post office, the telegraph company. Nothing. Blank walls. He’d erased his tracks. It felt like being watched by unseen eyes, unsure if they belonged to a guardian or a predator.

Then, a ridiculous, yet persistent thought burrowed into my brain.

Kevin Vanderbilt.

The tycoon with the sharp eyes and the Packard engine question. He knew cars. He seemed… overly interested.

No, impossible! Was I going crazy from poverty and fear? Vanderbilt? Knight K? A powerful heir listening to my syrupy show, sending anonymous gifts, caring about a struggling broadcaster/underground critic? That was less likely than Prohibition ending tomorrow!

I shook my head, trying to banish the thought. But Vanderbilt’s probing eyes and K’s increasingly bizarre messages started to merge in my mind.

Unease turned into a knot of fear. Whether it was Vanderbilt or K, or both, I felt exposed, the script of my life suddenly spinning wildly out of control.

The fragile peace shattered with a cough that tore through the small apartment.

I’d just returned from the station when Tim doubled over, coughing violently, a sound like tearing fabric. Then, my worst fear materialized – bright red blood seeped through the fingers clamped over his mouth, staining his pale lips, staining my world.

“Tim!” I screamed, catching his trembling body. He gasped for air, his small chest heaving, eyes wide with pain and terror.

Frantically, I grabbed a towel, trying to staunch the flow, but the red kept coming. Dr. Fitzgerald arrived quickly, his face grim. Emergency medication finally calmed the coughing fit.

“Annabelle, there’s no more time,” the doctor’s voice was grave, final. “His lungs are hemorrhaging. He needs Switzerland. Immediately. Or…” He sighed heavily. “I’ve contacted the sanatorium. The funds… they need to be secured now.”

How soon was “now”? The answer hit me like a sledgehammer: within one week. Secure the first substantial payment, or lose the chance.

One week. For a sum that felt like a king’s ransom. I sat by Tim’s bedside as he drifted into a drugged sleep, his brow still furrowed. Ice water flooded my veins. Hope, luck, K’s charity – all evaporated. Sweetheart Annie’s salary, Nightingale’s risky earnings… pocket change against this mountain.

Panic seized me. Money! I needed vast sums of money, now!

Only one path remained. The most dangerous one.

I found Finn wrestling with a greasy engine at his garage. “Finn,” I said, no preamble, “Maloney. Is there a big game coming up? A really big one?”

Finn wiped sweat from his brow, startled. “Annie? Why are you asking? Stay away from them! Maloney’s ruthless, his games are rigged deep. You go in, you don’t come out clean!”

“I know the risk,” my voice trembled with urgency. “But I need money, Finn! A lot of money! Tim’s dying! Switzerland is his only hope!”

“Do you know how much Switzerland costs?! It’s not our league!” Finn snapped, dropping his wrench. “What are you planning? Predicting for Maloney? Do you know what happens to predictors who lose people money? Annie, wake up! This isn’t a game!”

“I am awake!” I yelled, desperation boiling over. “More awake than ever! I won’t watch Tim die! If predicting brings fast cash, I’ll sell my soul to the devil!”

“Annie!” Finn grabbed my arm, his eyes blazing. “Don’t do this! We’ll figure something else out! I can take more jobs, I can—”

“Can you conjure thousands of dollars?!” I wrenched free, tears finally spilling. “Finn, I know you care, but you can’t help me with this. It’s on me!”

We stood facing each other amidst the garage noise, the air thick with oil and tension. Finn looked at me, his expression pained, defeated. He knew my stubbornness.

“Alright,” he finally conceded, his voice hoarse. “What do you need to know? But Annie, I swear, one wrong step…”

I took a deep breath, wiped my tears, my gaze hardening. “Tell me. What race is coming up that’s worth this ‘Nightingale’ risking her neck for?”

The gates of hell seemed to creak open before me. And I had no choice but to step inside.