Time to go. Halfway to the door, she heard the unmistakable mechanical click of a key card unlocking the door.

  She veered into the bathroom, stepping into the tub just as the door opened. Crouching down, she tried to soundlessly adjust the shower curtain so it hid her as completely as was possible. Not her finest moment.

  Adam’s voice came from the other room. “Yeah, I bet six hundred. You swear this thing’s fixed?”

  She heard the click and flare of a lighter. Scented the catch of the cigarette. Felt the strain of crouching like she was already, her fingers on the edge of the tub to steady herself, a corner of Knight Singh’s book jabbing her in the stomach.

  “Yeah, box exacta on Vantablack and Wild Mars Rover.” His voice changed, suddenly deferential. “No, I’m not doubting you. Of course not.”

  Charlie tried to stop breathing so she could be sure to hear what he was saying.

  “When I make fourteen grand, the book’s yours. Going to go home to my girl a hero.”

  That would have been a much sweeter sentiment if he hadn’t ditched Doreen and their kid for days, and stolen her ring to boot. At least now Charlie understood what he needed it for. Someone had offered him a gambling tip for the book.

  Knight had been a member of the Cabal, a local governing body for gloamists. On his own, he had a small organization with its hands in a lot of things, including art theft and political manipulation. He mainly employed puppeteers.

  With him gone, there might be a power vacuum at the top. Knight’s accumulated knowledge would help anyone make a play for the leadership role. Another puppeteer, using their shadow to mess with the world. Slow a punch in boxing. Jerk a hand on a wheel while coming around a turn. Or trip a horse on a track. Another puppeteer, with a lot of ambition and not a lot of cash.

  She supposed it could be a decent deal, but it was definitely a bootleg deal. Adam really must have wanted to move the book fast.

  “I got it off Raven,” he said from the other room. She heard the springs of the bed groan. “I don’t know if she read it.”

  Charlie’s legs shook from holding her position. She could risk sitting, which would be bad if she had to get up quickly. Or she could stay like she was and hope that her muscles didn’t cramp, which would make her even slower and less able to run, if it came to that.

  She frowned at her shadow, dark against the white tile, another thing that might give her away.

  The cat had bitten her that afternoon. Could that have been enough blood to finish its quickening? A shadowy form coming toward Adam could chase him straight into the hall. He’d probably continue on to the lobby, shouting at the top of his lungs, imagining it was an angry gloamist after him.

  Move, she told her shadow. Do something.

  Her shadow remained just where it was.

  Oh, come on, she thought. Be magic.

  Inert.

  You’d do it for blood, wouldn’t you? If I tossed a napkin soaked with it, like a stick for a dog.

  Or like a napkin soaked with blood for a dog, she supposed.

  Please. But nothing happened. And her legs only hurt worse. What good are you then?

  Taking a chance, putting her hand on the tile, she slowly pushed herself to her feet. She could stand for a lot longer, but if he came into the bathroom, he’d be sure to see her.

  She hadn’t heard him throw the dead bolt. If she could hop out of the shower, get across the room fast enough, she could be out the door before he got up off the bed. Except that it would be almost impossible to get out of the shower without making some sound. If he just turned on the television, she might be tempted to try.

  In the other room, Adam was on a second call. “Yeah, I’m just going to take a quick shower and then I’ll meet you at the bar.”

  She had to get out of the room, immediately.

  Slowly and carefully, she pulled her cell from her pocket.

  He’d already found a way to move the book, so Amber would hold no appeal, even if he hadn’t blocked her. Charlie could use her regular phone—send him a text, pretending to be a stolen credit card alert, or the hotel manager. But if he called back, it wasn’t like she could answer from his bathtub.

  Charlie flipped a mental list of people she knew, plus the things she might be able to convince them to say. Maybe she could convince Barb to call and tell him there was a delivery for Adam that he needed to go down and sign for. Maybe she could get Posey to call and tell him that his car was on fire.

  Then she thought of the one person who could definitely get him up and out of the room. Doreen.

  From the other room, she could hear him rummaging through his drawers.

  Fucker sold your gram’s ring, Charlie wrote.

  For a moment there was no response and Charlie started to sweat.

  Then Doreen’s text came: Asshole. I’m going to kill him. Where is he?

  Charlie smiled. She typed as fast as she could. MGM hotel, Room 455. He’s there right now, if you want to give him a piece of your mind.

  There was a long pause. Charlie put one hand against the wall.

  The response came back: Are you with him?

  One thing Charlie could rely on was how much Doreen hated to wait. She’d been restless at Rapture, impatient in every text. Back in high school she would tap her foot against the back rung of Charlie’s chair and futz with a pen all through class.

  Charlie simply didn’t answer. In less than thirty seconds, the landline hotel phone started to ring.

  He picked up, and there was a long pause. “How did you find me?

  “You’re coming here?” he said. “Baby, wait a second. How do you have my room number?”

  Charlie heard steps coming toward the bathroom and she went back into a crouch. Listened as he pissed in the toilet. He swore twice, kicked the wall, then walked out of the room. She heard the door close and the electric lock engage.

  Legs stiff and shaking, Charlie climbed out of the bathtub, using the towel rack to help her. She hobbled to the door. She wanted to yank it open and run, but forced herself to count to fifty. Then she walked into the hall and headed for the stairs. Taking the steps two at a time, she headed down. On the fifth floor, she had to stop and take a few deep breaths. Panic had made her breathe too shallowly and she was dizzy from it.

  In the lobby, she kept her head high and her gaze on the exit. She reminded herself that even if Adam knew what Charlie looked like, she was in a wig. She could probably walk right past Doreen without being spotted.

  As she hit the doors, fresh, cold autumn air broke over her. She inhaled and felt the pure hit of adrenaline that came when a job was almost over. And now, with Knight Singh’s book tucked under her bra, she had the promise of a new job ahead of her.

  Ten minutes later she was parking too close to the curb on Meadow Road, in front of Murray’s Fine Jewelry. If she got Doreen’s ring, then she’d have something to turn over in exchange for fixing things at Posey’s school. And to make up for having boosted the book from Adam.

  “Charlie Hall,” Murray said as the bell clanged behind her and she looked around at the familiar, dusty shelves. “What did you bring me?”

  He was a small man, red-haired and wearing wire-framed glasses that magnified his eyes uncannily. She’d been selling him stolen goods since she was fifteen and Rand decided it was important for her to learn “the back end” of the business.

  Charlie walked to the counter. She looked down at the rings. “Can I see that one?”

  Murray’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he took out the tray.

  She put her finger on Doreen’s ring. “This ring was stolen, you know.”

  He raised both eyebrows. “That’s a real shame.”

  She sighed, because while it was true that Doreen could call the cops, they didn’t usually get involved in domestic disputes about communal property. “I’ll trade you for a tip on a fixed horse race.”

  He laughed. “You want me to play the ponies? And if I lose, what, come collect the ring from you? You know I like you, kid, but I deal in sure things.”

  “It’s a box exacta on Vantablack and Mars something,” she said, turning the ring over in her fingers, admiring the flash of the stone and the richness of the gold. “Oh, come on, you can’t tell me that a pawnshop isn’t a little like gambling.”

  “If you’re good at it, it’s not,” he grumbled. “That stone’s fake, you know.”

  “Huh,” she said, bringing it closer to her face and giving it a more thorough inspection. The tines holding what she’d supposed to be a diamond were a different shade from the rest. A bright, yellow gold.

  “Does Adam know?” Charlie asked.

  Murray shook his head. “Him? He sold it to me years ago.”

  “Then how come you paid him so much for what’s left?” Charlie asked, wondering whether, in the end, Doreen would consider the ring recovered if she found out her diamond was gone.

  “So you know the price I gave him too?” Murray snorted. “For your information, I paid for the gold. Twenty-two carats. That’s why the band is so scratched. Too soft for regular wear not to damage it.”

  Charlie gave Murray her best good-pupil smile. “Come on, this tip’s good. And it sounds like the ring is only so-so.”

  Murray grunted. Then he opened his laptop and started typing something into it. Charlie slid the ring onto the knuckle of her middle finger. Looked around the store.

  In one of the other cabinets, she noticed a display of onyx. Rings, earrings, pendants, a net of polished onyx beads, and handcuffs lined with strips of onyx rested in the case. Beside those were gloves like the ones that Odette had, but instead of shining nails, they were black stone. Then there were powders to add to nail polish or press into lipstick, a few fake teeth, and a large array of carved onyx knives. A big one hung behind the register. Murray’s other business. Selling protection from shadows.

  “I see your race here. Wild Mars Rover. How sure are you about this?” Murray asked.

  A good question. Adam had seemed certain, but Adam was an idiot. “Totally sure.” After all, equivocating wouldn’t make him blame her less if he lost the money.

  “All right,” he said. “Take the ring back to your little friend. But if this doesn’t come through, you’re going to be getting me twice the value of what I lost—and you’re going to get it in something easy to move, like uncut gems. Or stolen shadows. Agreed?”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said, slipping the ring all the way onto her finger and then pointing down at the black knives. “You sell a lot of these?”

  “More all the time. You can’t be too careful,” he said. “People say onyx can cut through the night.”

  “How much?” she asked.

  Murray smiled a kind, grandfatherly smile. “I’ll add it to your tab. Better get it from someone you trust. Too much shined-up resin out there, looking like stone.”

  “Appreciated,” she told him.

  He chose one of the knives from the case, wrapped it in a cloth, and slid it into a bag. “Hope the horses come through.”

  “You and me both,” she said, and headed out the door. As she did, she noticed one of the bricks on the threshold was a polished black. No puppeteer was sending a shadow in there.

  In the car, sitting behind the wheel, she opened the pouch and took out the knife. Pressed her finger against the side. It wasn’t particularly sharp—stones didn’t hold an edge like metal did.

  Onyx can cut through the night.

  She hadn’t carried an onyx knife with her since she stopped stealing from gloamists—and her old one had a big chunk broken off it. Despite not being sharp, an onyx knife was an excellent weapon against a shadow. The onyx forced it solid, so it could be hit, and weakened it.

  She’d need the knife, now that Vince wasn’t around to break people’s necks.

  With the job over, there was no way to prevent herself from thinking of him. No way to avoid the gut punch of him being gone. No way to avoid the sadness that was coming to smother her.

  But at least he understood that Charlie Hall was no sucker. She wasn’t a mark.

  Edmund Vincent Carver. She took out her phone to stare at the picture of his license again, to study it as though she could know him from that picture. Her gaze slid to the address, right there in Springfield.

  Might as well swing by.

  The apartment building was on the smaller side, with four high-ceilinged stories. Old brick covered the exterior. If she hadn’t been able to guess the age of the building from the patina, the nonstandard-sized windows would have given it away. Every air conditioner jutting out from one had to be braced at an odd angle to fit.

  Charlie went up the steps. There were ten buttons on the buzzer. The first three didn’t get a response. The fourth and fifth had no idea who she was asking about. The sixth got a grumbled hello.

  “I have a package here for Edmund Carver,” she said. “Needs a signature.”

  “He doesn’t live here.” A guy, from the sound of the voice.

  “Well, maybe you could forward it to him,” Charlie suggested. If he would open the door, she believed she could weasel her way inside and refuse to leave until he told her something. “I just need someone to sign.”

  “I told you, he’s not here. He’s dead.”

  It was not particularly convincing that he started out with “not here” and ended with “dead.” She decided to take a gamble. “Look, I lied. I’m a friend and I really am trying to find him—”

  There was a quaver in the voice. “Go away. I don’t want any of this at my door. I’ve told all of you—I don’t know anything. Most nights he didn’t even sleep here, and he didn’t leave anything behind. Now, go away.” The intercom stopped crackling.

  Charlie pressed the buzzer again, and again, but he didn’t return.

  She looked over at her car but walked around the back of the building instead, where the trash cans were kept. It didn’t take her long to find one that had junk mail addressed to apartment 2B among the coffee grounds and eggshells and takeout containers. A glossy catalog of scrubs, only slightly smeared with old soup, had the name Liam Clovin, MD, printed on the back.

  18

  THE PAST

  Born as a wisp of a thing, ephemeral as smoke from a cigarette. Succored with blood, with scraps of horror and self-disgust. Embarrassing desires. I want her. I want him. I want that.

  Catch the ball, he says, and I catch it. Are they my hands or his?

  Chase me, he says. Find me. It’s too easy. To lose him, I’d have to lose myself.

  He wants me to laugh. Shows me how. Shows me funny things. Cats that fall off tables. Teenagers skateboarding into lakes.

  You’re my only friend, he tells me sometimes. But that’s only true because his mother keeps him home from school. Because he has dirty clothes. Because he can’t invite anyone over.

  I’m scared she’ll die. I want her to hold me when I am crying, when I am feverish, when I am afraid. Want her to smooth back my hair. Kiss my forehead. I hate her. Maybe I’d be better off if she were dead. None of those feelings are mine, but they become mine. They become me.

  Sometimes she takes us to the supermarket and only puts the cheap, heavy stuff in her cart. Sugar. Flour. Milk. She tells him to shove packages of chicken breasts and pork chops into his backpack.

  No candy, she says. They expect kids to steal candy. That’s how they catch you.

  There are mirrored pieces of the ceiling that let people watch. There are security cameras.

  But none of them are watching me. We take what she wants. We take candy. We take everything.

  Then his grandfather takes us to his big house, where there is a girl to play with and enough food for everyone. If Remy is hungry, someone makes him food. If Remy cries, someone will come. But Remy doesn’t cry anymore. He gives all his tears to me.

  The arrangement is simple. We can stay here so long as I do bad things. People have a spark inside of them, and what I have to do is put it out. Every time I do, some of the spark gets on me, in me like the smear left behind from crushing a lightning bug. Killing is easier than stealing, but I don’t like the way that Remy looks at me when we’re done.

  I am changing. The sparks are doing something.

  I am having trouble going back to sleep when Remy doesn’t need me.

  I am restless. Something is wrong with me. Something is right with me. I can do things that Remy doesn’t know about. When he’s asleep, I wander the house, the thin tether never growing taut. I can juggle oranges, and turn on the radio like a poltergeist. Read books, draw a picture in the condensation on the windows.

  It’s my idea, the first time. I want to see what will happen. Cut the cord. And then when it happens, I am scared. There is an emptiness where Remy was, and it feels like falling through the night. I have never been alone. There isn’t enough of me to be alone.

  Each time it happens, I forget things. Little things. Where I was. How long I was gone.

  Adeline tells me things, but they’re not all true. I don’t want to listen to her anymore.

  Sometimes, the air around me feels charged, like a storm coming on. I think I might be angry. I think I might be furious. I think I might be about to do something I am going to regret.

  Remy makes me a promise. Shhhhh. We’re going to run away. Then it will be just me and not me and not him. He’s going to fix me. He’s going to help me.

  But first, blot out a few more sparks. Drown a few more stars.

  19

  CANDY CRACKS TEETH

  Charlie texted Doreen that she’d gotten the ring and then took herself to Blue Ruin to wait and think through what she was going to do with Knight Singh’s book.

  The bar was in a tiny, grotty brick building, far from the downtown. On the outside, a faded sign proclaimed it “The Bluebird.” No one ever called it that, though. It was a third-shift bar, opening at five a.m. and announcing last call at two a.m. Between two and five, it became a restaurant with an extremely limited menu. If you ordered enough cocktails to get you through the three-hour lull in service, you could drink for twenty-four hours straight.