She thought that probably meant he did want a coffee, thanks. And also it meant that she was screwed.
There are lots of different kinds of lies. Fibs to lubricate society. Deceptions, to avoid consequences. Misrepresentations to hide behind, because you’re worried another person won’t understand, or won’t like you, or because what you’ve done is bad and you’re ashamed of it. And then there are the lies you tell because everything about you is a lie.
Posey’s accusation that he understood French had been funny, because not telling someone a thing wasn’t the same as hiding it. Maybe he’d spent a year abroad, or had a French side to his family, or had downloaded Duolingo and really applied himself.
But when she’d spoken to him in French, he’d pretended he hadn’t understood a word.
Hiding a facility with murder was troubling but understandable. Hiding a history with shadow magic could have a reasonable explanation.
But hiding something that shouldn’t have mattered made Charlie wonder if anything she knew about him was real.
Charlie went into the bathroom, latched the door, and then sat on the edge of the tub. She put her head into her hands.
Vince being a liar and a murderer proved that her instincts were unerringly bad, just like her mother and grandmother. Sure, he’d started out as a one-night stand, but Vince had seemed like a solid, responsible guy. A little too good for her, maybe, and unlikely to stick around, but still evidence that she was making responsible choices. That there was hope for her to be part of the straight-and-narrow world.
But there she was, more bent than ever.
Charlie Hall, drawn to trouble like an ant to a glue trap. The worst part was that she was more fascinated by him now that she ought to walk away. Now that he was a puzzle of a man, just waiting to be solved.
But if it was impossible for her to pretend all the time, the same was true for him. He’d left clues. And if she didn’t like what she found, well, she’d known he was going to break her heart. That was the Hall family legacy. It had always been a matter of when.
Put on some lipstick and shave your legs, she told herself. Screw your head on straight. Vince wasn’t her only problem. If Hermes had told anyone where he was going the night before, he might not be the last person to come looking for her. And Balthazar had told him something, she was almost sure of it. She’d bet money there’d been a conversation between them, about her.
She got a washcloth and some soap, ran water into the tub. Washed her pits and her bits. Lathered up her legs. A few of her fresh scabs sloughed off on the dull blade, setting the scrapes to bleeding anew.
She thought about that line: Shadows are like the shades of the dead in Homer, needing blood to quicken them.
She thought about Hermes. You know what I feed this thing? Blood. Maybe yours.
What if…?
Charlie daubed her first finger in the blood on her leg. There was enough welling up that she could flick it toward her shadow. As she watched, it seemed to ripple, as though shuddering. Nothing hit the floor tiles.
She blinked a few times, trying to focus her gaze on the ground. Maybe she just couldn’t see the blood because it was such a fine spatter. Or maybe she’d actually fed her shadow.
But surely if it was quickened, something else would happen. There would be some unmistakable sign.
Putting off the question, she pulled on a shirt and sweats she found in the laundry. Tied her hair into a loose bun on top of her head. Went to make coffee.
There were three texts on her non-burner phone. One was from Doreen, demanding Charlie give her an update on what had been taking so long and threatening to change Posey’s record for the worse instead of the better if she didn’t bring Adam home. Another was from Odette, sent to all Rapture employees, informing them that the lounge was closed until an insurance adjustor could come in and survey the damage following an attempted robbery. Odette estimated that would take three to four days.
Then there was a private message from Odette:
Have you told anyone what we saw?
Charlie wasn’t sure what that was about. She texted back:
no, you?
No reply came.
Charlie didn’t like to be paranoid, but she wondered why Odette had asked her that. As Charlie added coffee grounds, cinnamon, and water to the pot, she wondered if Odette might know Salt.
If Balthazar had had a conversation with Hermes, it was time he had a conversation with Charlie too.
She’d been to his place once before, an old brick firehouse that overlooked the canal in Holyoke. At the time he’d been having a party and hadn’t invited her inside.
Good luck with that this time.
Charlie put on her coat, got her keys, and went for a drive.
The day was overcast, heavy with the threat of rain. She could already smell it as she got out of her car and went around the side of the brick building, to the entrance. The place was nondescript to the point of looking abandoned, but she noted that at least one light was on inside.
This part of Holyoke still had some old abandoned factories, ones that hadn’t been turned into cheapish industrial work spaces for artists and other folks with businesses that either needed a large, messy space or at least didn’t mind one. There were apartment buildings a few blocks over, and a few houses with scrubby lawns.
She pounded on the painted black door, ignoring the stenciled words: “GO AWAY.”
When no sound came from inside, she pounded some more.
“Can’t you read the sign?” came a shout from within.
Charlie kicked the door with her foot. “You know what a snap gun is? I’ve got one in the trunk of my car and it will pick that lock in seconds. Might damage the mechanism, might not, but I will still be inside.”
Balthazar jerked open the door. He was wearing a red dressing gown, his hair mussed, and he looked ready to go to war with the person responsible for waking him up. He blinked a few times, obviously stunned that it was her.
“You almost got me killed last night,” Charlie said.
“Well, fuck a duck. Hello, darling.”
She pushed past him into the fire station. “Surprised I’m still among the living?”
“Delighted. Come in, I was just going to make some coffee.” His tone let her know he was annoyed at her barging in, but not enough for it to matter. He signaled her toward some stairs and then went up a floor and into a surprisingly sunny kitchen with a few plants wilting in pots. On one of the burners sat the largest Cuban-style stove-top espresso maker Charlie had ever seen. “I said to ole Aspirins, there’s more to that girl than meets the eye. And then Joey, he said I was just being sentimental, that you were an empty-headed—”
“Save it,” interrupted Charlie, before he really got going. “I want information.”
“Have a seat,” he said, indicating a café table that looked like one corner of it had been set on fire at some point in the past. Raynham Park racing forms from the week before served as a tablecloth.
“I want to know about the book that Paul Ecco tried to sell you.”
“Eavesdropping, were you?” He took out a jar of Café Bustelo and rough measured the grounds into the metal cage, then filled the bottom with water. He set it down on the stove and turned on the gas so that blue flames licked the bottom. “You were good. Most people who think they can do this kind of work, can’t. But you’ve made it very clear you’re out of the game.”
Rand had told her that the world of heists and lies and lifts were what certain people were born for, and that Charlie was one of them. Her hands became steady, her fingers quick, and her mouth ready to talk a raft of shit. She had been good. And she’d liked it. That was the problem.