Charlie puzzled that through. If Red was saying that a shadow couldn’t hurt the person tethered to them, that was one thing. But he was implying a shadow couldn’t want that and that couldn’t be true. Rose had asked him to kill the gloamist to whom she was bound. He was lying.

  “What about the last Hierophant?” she asked, since she couldn’t ask him about Rose without admitting to what she knew. “How did his shadow drain him?”

  “Ketamine,” Red said.

  “What?” Balthazar demanded, leaning forward.

  Red frowned. “It’s a—”

  “I know what ketamine is,” Balthazar interrupted, rushing the explanation along.

  “Salt used it to drug Remy to sleep. When he did that, I spoke through Remy’s mouth. I controlled his body. I was alone in his mind. Salt gave doses of ketamine to Cleophes of York to make the arrangement with him. That allowed Cleophes to use up his host. But even then, I don’t think he meant to harm the man; I think he was just too bent on his own goals to notice how far he’d gone.”

  Charlie thought of her interactions with Red. He hadn’t shown up when she was in danger and had arranged a murder with Rose’s shadow, one that might be dangerous to her, at the very least. If he couldn’t hurt her, he could arrange for her to be hurt, which seemed like an important distinction, although maybe not one Red was eager to share.

  “Salt drugged his grandson?” Balthazar asked.

  “He drugged a lot of people,” Red said. “He gave Charlie pentobarbital. That was one of his favorites.”

  Balthazar looked over at Charlie. “I don’t recall you mentioning that.”

  “Maybe you should have me over more often,” she said. “I’ve got lots of good stories.”

  “Well, you’ll have to come at least once more,” he reminded her. “With my Blight.”

  After they left, as they walked through the lot to the Porsche, Charlie stopped Red with a hand on his arm. “What about with us?” she asked. “Do you want what I want because we’re bound together?”

  “That’s the thing.” His mouth twisted with obvious frustration. “How would I know?”

  * * *

  Later, in bed, she tried to stay awake, watching the window from the corner of her eye. Waiting for a shadow to slide through it, to come looking for him. Waiting for him to go out and the tether between them to slim to a skein of thread.

  Listening, in case Posey came home, and might be in danger.

  But no one entered and no one left. Red remained beside her all night, eyes closed, drifting in something like dreams.

  * * *

  The alarm on Charlie’s phone went off at ten the next morning, which should have been a reasonable hour except that she’d only fallen asleep when the sun was already bright in the sky, perhaps two hours before. Her head hurt and the idea of turning over and going right back to sleep was extremely tempting. Red was no longer beside her.

  Cursing under her breath, she dragged herself out of bed and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

  In the living area, she found Red’s long body sprawled on the couch, arm behind his head, handsome profile on obnoxious display. He wore jeans and a black Henley tight enough to draw her gaze, despite wishing it didn’t. On the television, someone with an accent was deep-sea diving to find the remains of U-boats. He had a book open on the cushion beside him, but she wasn’t sure he was paying attention to either.

  The scent of coffee filled the air and he seemed to have a cup of it in front of him.

  “You fixed the coffeepot?”

  He gave her a familiar slanted smile. “Too many grounds in the tubes. I flushed it.”

  “When did you start teaching yourself things that Remy didn’t know?” Looking back, she’d always assumed Vince’s habit of cleaning gutters and changing the oil in her car had been part of his human-boyfriend act. But Red didn’t pretend to be anything other than what he was. He shoved his inhumanity in her face. Half the time, he didn’t even seem to like her. Which—oddly distressing—meant his kindness in cleaning out the coffeepot this morning was likely real and his other, forgotten kindnesses had probably always been real too.

  He frowned at her question. “I’m not sure.”

  He didn’t like talking about Remy. And he definitely didn’t like admitting to anything that cast Remy in a bad light. Her question had probably stung, which was poor repayment for doing something nice.

  She was sharp-tempered from lack of sleep, she told herself, and refused to feel guilty because her lack of sleep was his fault.

  But she still wondered. Had Remy ever been unnerved by how clever Red was? Or had he accepted it as his due and found useful tasks to give his shadow—staying awake in class, studying geometry, writing their papers? She wished she knew if—in the end—he’d ever felt as though he was Red’s shadow. “What’s with the history lesson?” she asked, gesturing toward the screen.

  Red looked up at her, a few strands of blond hair falling across his eyes. “The RMS Lusitania sank too quickly for anyone to evacuate because of its own speed—it pushed water into its body as it drove itself into the bottom of the sea. Had it been less good at what it did, the submarine attack might have been survivable.”

  “That was the twin of the Titanic, right?” she asked.

  He gave her a strange smile. “No, but people think that because they were both such famous disasters. A matched pair.”

  For a moment, she thought he was making a remark about the two of them, but that couldn’t be right.

  Leaving him to his naval warfare, Charlie went into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of irritatingly totally decent coffee.

  There, she took out her old phone and a new glass screen protector she’d bought from the drugstore. She wiped down her cracked screen and put the glass over it, hoping to keep her fingers from getting cut. Despite her skepticism, it seemed to work and she could finally get to her messages.

  One from Vicereine telling her to call. A few from her mother, a few more from Adeline, one from Fiona, asking about their lunch date. Some from friends she’d asked to help move her into the Northampton apartment later in the week asking whether free pizza would be provided.

  And, of course, a reminder she had a shift that night.

  Yawning, Charlie deleted the messages. She needed to focus on the job that mattered. Get Mr. Punch his answers. Which meant getting into that church. Hatfield was a small town and while they might give leeway to or even gossip with someone in the community, they weren’t going to do that for her.

  So she had to become someone they’d talk with. Loading up the Grace Covenant Church Facebook page, she scrolled through messages until she found the reverend, Kevin Powers, and a part-time office assistant, Melissa Svoboda. Charlie copied the church contact information into her phone, looked up a few more facts, and then called.

  “I’m Carli Bradwell with CMIC following up on a claim,” Charlie said, talking fast. “Is this the office of the Grace Covenant Church?”

  “Yes?” a-person-who-Charlie-hoped-was-Melissa said, sounding a little confused. “Who did you say was calling?”

  “CMIC,” Charlie repeated. “Church Mutual Insurance Company. Your insurance agents.” At least Charlie figured they probably were. They were the biggest company insuring churches on the East Coast.

  “Oh! I didn’t realize,” Melissa said. “Of course.”

  “We’ve been looking over your policy and there’s a problem with your claim. You’re not covered for any kind of biohazard cleanup. Blood could, unfortunately, be considered a biohazard. Plus there’s the issue that no one on the policy was there at the time these people were doing whatever it was they were doing.”

  “They weren’t a cult. They were a discussion group,” Melissa snapped. “This is a tragedy and you’re seriously saying you can’t help us, after always paying our premiums on time? Your company insures churches; where is the compassion?”

  Charlie guessed that church administrative assistant was a thankless position. Everyone wanted to be a hero—Charlie was going to give her a chance to be one. “I think we can do something under the vandalism and criminal acts part of your policy. You’re covered for that.” After a careful pause she went on. “But I still need to come and take pictures. I need to assess how much damage there really is and present the information to my supervisor.”

  “And they’ll cover it?” Melissa asked.

  “I want to help make that happen, I swear. Can I come tomorrow? It won’t take a lot of time.”

  “I’m afraid that tomorrow isn’t going to work,” Melissa said, sounding a little panicked. “No one is going to be here. Unfortunately, we’re closing up the church for a few weeks, starting tonight.”

  Charlie’s heart sank.

  “You could come now, though,” said the woman. “The reverend is already away with family, but I can stay a little late. Would that work?”

  Charlie leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. Yes! “I can do that, I suppose,” she said, trying to keep her voice neutral. “I’ll have to move some appointments around.”

  Melissa thanked her effusively.

  After Charlie got off the phone, she did a victorious dance around the kitchen, jerking to a halt when she noticed Red watching her from the doorway.

  “You could charm a wolf away from a steak dinner,” he said.

  “I sure could,” she agreed, going to pour herself a second, celebratory cup of coffee.

  17

  I Plan on Dying in Your Arms

  Red drove, one hand easy on the wheel, the other on the gearshift.

  From the passenger seat, Charlie texted Fiona her regrets, pleading a sore throat. She was glad for an excuse to weasel out of sitting across from the intimidating old lady.

  In black slacks, a white button-down, and a green sweater, Charlie hoped she looked the part of an insurance adjuster. She swiped concealer over her bruise, along with mascara and a little blush. She’d found some small golden hoops to stick in her ears, but was reluctant to take off the onyx. In the end, she left them on. They were neutral enough.

  Between texting and attaching the forms she’d printed out at Staples to the clipboard (also purchased at Staples), she didn’t notice they’d pulled into a gas station until they were stopping. The realization hit Charlie like a punch to the gut. This was where Rose had promised to leave Red a message.

  He got out, went to the pump, then hesitated. He had his wallet in one hand and the black card he got from Adeline in the other. A muscle jumped in his jaw and his fingers curled around the card so tightly that Charlie was afraid it would cut into his skin.

  She leaned across the driver’s seat, then pushed a button to roll down his window. “Everything okay?”

  “I’m going to pay inside. You want anything?”

  Inside, where it would be easy for Red to slip into the bathroom and get the address. And yet, he hadn’t behaved like someone who planned on leading her to her doom. Who fixed someone’s coffeepot before they murdered them?

  Someone who felt guilty about doing the murder, she supposed.

  As soon as the door on the store swung closed, she tried the exercise that Balthazar had attempted to teach her. Tried to see out of Red’s eyes. Tried to focus on being there with him, on the line of shadow between them.

  But it didn’t work any better than it had in Balthazar’s place.

  Sooner than she expected, Red was walking back to the car, hands in the pockets of his coat. He must have found the message easily. A few people glanced his way as he crossed the parking lot. Tall and broad-shouldered, handsome, driving a Porsche—what wasn’t there to like?

  Immensely annoyed, Charlie got out of the car and headed for the store.

  “Gotta pee,” she said as she passed him. What was he going to do, stop her?

  Inside, it turned out there was a men’s and women’s bathroom. She pushed her way into the men’s, startling a guy in a backward baseball cap at the urinals.

  “Hey!” the guy yelled, having pissed on his own shoes.

  “Sorry!” she said cheerily as she headed for the single stall.

  Rose hadn’t been subtle. The words “For a good time, kill” followed by an address in Greenfield were written in red marker over the toilet. Charlie took a photo with her phone.

  “You’re not supposed to be in here,” the guy told her, zipping up his trousers.

  “Whoops! Wrong bathroom,” she said as she went out the door.

  Just in case he was going to follow and scold her some more, she walked quickly to the car. If Red heard what she’d been up to, he would definitely be able to guess why. But he’d evidently finished filling the gas tank, because the car was idling, waiting for her, and as soon as she got in, they sped away.

  * * *

  “Carli, you said your name was?” the church receptionist asked. She was in a plum sweater over a navy skirt, her hair dyed a dark red with gray showing at the roots. Charlie didn’t remember her from when Mom got married, but it seemed possible that she’d been there.

  “And you’re Melissa, right?” Charlie confirmed, clipboard in hand. Her head hurt from lack of sleep and her heart hurt from Red failing to confess during the rest of the drive, but at least she’d made it to Grace Covenant Church on time. “We spoke on the phone. It won’t take long to document the damage to the, uh, undercroft.”

  Melissa wrinkled her nose. “We don’t call it that. Ours is just a regular church basement, nothing fancy. It has wall-to-wall carpeting and a drop ceiling, for goodness’ sake! It’s not some medieval tomb.”

  “Wall-to-wall carpeting?” Charlie echoed with a wince.

  “Yes, that will have to be replaced,” Melissa said sharply. “But that’s the least of it. The cement floor underneath is ruined. It wasn’t sealed, you know, and cement is a very porous material. We need it replaced, not just some skim coat over it and certainly not just new carpeting. Don’t even think about cheaping out. This is a historical building.”

  “I’m just doing a job,” Charlie said, holding up a hand and hoping she was playing this right. “Sometimes people think they’re going to use an insurance claim to get all kinds of deferred maintenance done for free.”

  Melissa sighed. “I knew how this was going to go. Sweet as pie on the phone—making all sorts of promises—and a piranha as soon as you get through the door.”

  “No, no,” Charlie reassured her, not wanting to come off as suspiciously generous but not wanting to get tossed out either. “I’m saying it’s wrong when people take advantage like that and make it harder for good honest folk like you to get the coverage they deserve. I know you need everything you asked for—my job is to find the codes to submit that will get it done.”

  “The sooner the better. You wouldn’t believe the people wanting to get in and see it the way it is.” Melissa took off her glasses and rubbed them on her shirt. “We didn’t need a bunch of rubberneckers making up nonsense about a tragedy. You can’t believe what they put on the news and especially online.”

  Charlie nodded. “I’m sure and I feel twice as bad after you telling me that, but I am going to have to see the space too.”

  “I understand.” The woman picked up keys attached to a large plastic dinosaur. She smiled when she saw it had drawn Charlie’s eye. “The reverend loses the keys all the time. We had to put this on it to make sure we could find them for him. He’s a sweet man, but one of those people who would walk straight into the exit door five times before he thought to look for the entrance.”

  Which meant that one of those lost keys could have been stolen with no one the wiser. Time for Charlie to turn on some charm. “You must take care of a lot of things around here.”

  “Oh, you don’t even know,” the woman said. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “I’d love one.” Rand had always told her that people felt safer when you accepted their generosity. Plus, Charlie never said no to coffee.

  “Milk and sugar?”

  “Both, please.” Trustworthy people liked things light and sweet. Not Charlie’s normal preference, but light and sweet also covered a lot of caffeinated sins.

  The woman poured her a cup and doctored it heavily with powdered creamer. It carried the burnt scent of sitting too long in the pot, but Charlie drank it with a smile. “I needed that,” she said. “Thanks.”

  By the time they’d gone down the steps, Melissa seemed in a much better mood. “I have to confess I never much liked going down here and it’s worse now. I’m the one who found them, you know?”

  “Wow.” Charlie hadn’t seen that in any of the reporting. “If you want me to go by myself, I can.”

  Melissa gave a nervous laugh. “No, I’ll go.”

  The basement was damp and carried the scent of bleach. It reminded her of how Vince’s clothes had smelled, back when he worked under the table for the forensic cleaning team.

  A few metal chairs were folded against a wall, along with a long plastic table. As she looked around, Charlie realized how unlikely it was that there was anything left to find. She wasn’t even sure what she was supposed to look for. This wasn’t like searching for where people hid their valuables. This wasn’t like figuring out door codes or cracking a safe.

  Do you see anything? Charlie thought at Red.

  Walk around, he whispered back.

  “So they met down here?” Charlie said aloud, pacing across the basement to give Red a better view.

  Melissa shivered. “Lots of organizations do—did, anyway. That’s how most churches make a little extra money—and I do mean a very little. We had a yoga class. Narcotics Anonymous. There was even an after-school Dungeons and Dragons club that met here. No one wants to use the space now, of course. Town hall overcharges, but everyone’s going there anyway.”

  Charlie took another sip of coffee. “How long had the people who died been coming?”

  “Three years. They called themselves a Seekers Discussion Group and seemed like very normal people. A retired college professor, a homemaker with three kids under ten, a couple of girls still in college, a clerk at the Big Y. Ordinary people.”