Detective Vitolo’s eyebrows rose again. Detective Rudden smirked. Blights were discounted by a lot of people outside of the gloamist community. Considered to be stories, like the one about the girl who had a lump in her cheek that hatched spiders. “Okay, let’s say I believe you,” said Detective Vitolo. “What happened to the Blight?”

  I killed it was on the tip of Charlie’s tongue. But that seemed easy to twist into a murder confession. “I don’t know,” she said instead. “It attacked me. That’s why I was bleeding at Walgreens.”

  “And who was responsible in Solaluna?” asked Detective Rudden.

  “Mark Lord,” Charlie said. “You must know that. Someone must have said.”

  The detective flipped a few more papers. “According to our records, he’s in prison.”

  “He should be,” Charlie said. “That’s on you, not me.”

  “Reports have you leaving Solaluna with him.”

  “Don’t remember, due to being unconscious.”

  Detective Vitolo shook her head. “And you got away. Just like you got away from the Blight?”

  Charlie felt the weight of despair press down on her. They might not be sure what she’d done, but they were sure she’d done something. “Not the same way. But it’s true that I got away from both.”

  Detective Rudden shifted his chair. “What if I said that your DNA was found at another murder scene?”

  The place outside Solaluna where Mark brought her. Charlie’s DNA would be there. Would be on the French fries she dipped in tartar sauce. Would be in the bathroom, where she touched the counter as she looked into the mirror. Would be on the zip ties that bound her legs and wrists.

  “Where do you think I got away from?” Charlie asked.

  “And, again, you didn’t contact the police,” Vitolo said.

  “No,” said Charlie. “I went to the Cabals. After all, you don’t even believe in Blights.”

  Detective Rudden snorted. “You think they’re your friends?”

  “What?” Charlie said, making it a challenge.

  “Who do you think gave us your location? One of them.”

  That fucker.

  Mr. Punch managed to get his revenge after all.

  “I guess I should have come to you,” Charlie admitted. “And now I’m here.”

  She and the detectives went around and around like that.

  They didn’t fingerprint her. Didn’t charge her. Eventually they stuck her in a holding cell with half a dozen tired-looking women, a bench, and a steel toilet clogged with paper.

  Charlie sat on the cold floor of the cell and contemplated how, of all the things she had done, it was perhaps fitting that the crime she got picked up for was one she didn’t commit. She thought of the footage of her walking into that Walgreens, the blood dripping across her forehead as she walked through the aisles, picking up Steri-Strips and Twizzlers.

  If they charged her, no one was going to believe she hadn’t done it.

  Across the cell, sitting close to the open metal toilet, a woman in a heavy coat whispered to herself. A young girl with a shiny ponytail and a UMass sweatshirt was sitting on a cot and crying.

  Another woman, middle-aged, with a swollen eye and short pajamas, whispered to Charlie, “It’s always so fucking cold in here.”

  Charlie pulled her sweater over her head and offered it to the woman. “Take it.” That left her only with a t-shirt, but it hardly mattered. Where she was going, they were going to give her a whole new orange wardrobe.

  The woman put on another layer gratefully. “I’m Molly,” she said. “That was nice of you. This your first time?”

  “Yeah.” As a criminal, Charlie had been a huge success. But she’d wound up here anyway.

  “Don’t let it eat at you,” the woman said. “Just think about who you’re going to call. Make it someone that really likes you. Someone with money.”

  Charlie stayed in the cell through the night as people came and went. A few of the women got bailed out. More were brought in. From what she could hear, most had been picked up on drug charges, solicitation, or being intoxicated in public. One woman came in bleeding from a fight.

  After a while, Charlie found herself nodding off, but never for long. She couldn’t rest well on the cold benches, her thoughts turning over and over. Was there a way out of this? A bargain that she could make? Some reason for the detectives to be less interested in her being in a courtroom?

  Eventually one of the officers returned and called her name. “Charlotte Hall, step out.”

  She staggered up, stiff and sore, hoping the system would throw her back, like the too-small fish that she was, confident in their ability to get her next time. Handcuffed again, she was led back to the interrogation room. Detective Vitolo was already there. The cop who’d brought Charlie in attached her cuffs to the table.

  “You know I didn’t kill anyone,” she said.

  “I don’t know that,” said Detective Vitolo. “Like we said before, I have enough here to charge you. It would be easier if you confessed to killing the drifter. The DA’s office will give you a deal. But if you maintain your innocence, they’re going to seek the maximum sentence.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  Detective Vitolo shrugged. “You can stay with that if you want, but you’re telling me that not only are you not responsible, but you don’t know who is? Even though you were the only person in the building at the time of death? How likely is that? And don’t give me your Blight story again. It’s like saying a ghost killed him.”

  There wasn’t anything Charlie could say to that, so she didn’t.

  “And you don’t know the location of Mark Lord either?” Vitolo prompted.

  Charlie gritted her teeth. “I told you that I got away from him. After that, I don’t know where he went. How would I? I was running for my life.”

  “And what was your relationship with him?” Detective Vitolo asked.

  Oh, that was bad and Charlie’s hesitation was worse. “That’s got to be in your computer. He was convicted of attempting to murder me.”

  “And yet, you’re still alive,” Vitolo said.

  “You’re not the only person frustrated about that,” Charlie said, exhausted. She thought about telling the detective she had information about Mark and the church massacre. Surely that would buy her something, but the way they were talking, Vitolo would find a way to implicate her.

  “What if I told you that Mark Lord was dead?” Vitolo asked.

  They found his body, Charlie thought. “Well, then I would say that being in a police station was a pretty good alibi.”

  “We’re waiting on the time and cause of death,” Vitolo told her. “I think we better get you fingerprinted.”

  They did that, then took her glamour shots and charged her for criminal trespass. That would be enough to keep her locked up until the prosecutor decided how to proceed with the other charges. Eventually, they brought her to a different cell. This one had a television on and two women inside—one sitting on the bench and the other with her head pillowed on the first woman’s lap. Charlie stretched out on the opposite bench and closed her eyes, letting the sound of the game show flow over her.

  She woke to Red’s voice. Still half in dreams, she thought she was waking up in their old rental house before she felt the hardness of the bench and smelled the sourness of the air. When it all came rushing back, she sprang up, believing he’d come for her.

  But no, she was alone in the cell. Red’s voice was coming from the television on the wall. He stood on the courthouse steps in a gray suit with a gunmetal gray tie, a cashmere coat over top. His pale eyes were steady on the camera lens.

  “I am grateful to the city of Springfield,” he said, “for restoring my freedom and reputation. With my inheritance, I am planning on setting up a foundation to make sure that the people who helped me in my time of greatest need will get help in theirs.”

  Beneath him, the chyron read: Remy Carver, thought to be dead, inherits half the Salt fortune.

  Beside him stood Adeline, all in winter white. She had a cream bag over her shoulder and was flashing the smile of someone who’d practiced it in front of a mirror, so it would be just right for cameras. Lawyers flanked them, along with Fiona in a fur-trimmed coat.

  He’d told Charlie that he was going to accept all the things Remy had given him, but this looked more like capitulation. If not, Adeline wouldn’t be half so delighted, her fingers wouldn’t smooth the lapel of his coat so possessively. Nor would he be standing so rigid and stiff, a muscle jumping in his jaw as though forcing himself not to flinch.

  “Hall?” An officer was standing in front of her cell. “Time for your phone call.”

  Charlie got up, her back aching from sleeping on the bench. She followed the officer into the corridor and then into a room with a single phone in it.

  “You’ve got fifteen minutes,” the officer said. “Remember this is monitored.”

  Sitting down on the cold metal chair, Charlie stared at the phone. She considered and dismissed calling anyone in her family. No point in them feeling obligated to pay bail, when bail would be stupid expensive. And no point in attempting to get in touch with Red; he was busy. Odette probably knew a good lawyer; that was what Charlie really needed. She didn’t need to ask anyone else for help.

  Then she lifted the phone and made her decision.

  “Charlie Hall,” Balthazar said. “Are you calling me from a correctional facility?”

  “Yeah,” Charlie told him. “Can you ask Odette something for me real quick?”

  He sighed, but agreed, and further agreed to contact the lawyer on her behalf.

  After the call, the officer brought her back to the cell. She returned to her bench and watched a daytime soap opera where a baby was born without a shadow.

  Hours passed.

  The door of the cell opened. Charlie expected it to be the policeman who’d brought her in, but this man was in plain clothes with streaks of silver in his hair, old enough to have seniority. He looked as though he’d tasted something bitter and wanted the flavor off his tongue. “We got a call from the chief, but I thought there had to be some mistake, Mr. Carver.”

  Behind him, Red stepped into the cell. Mr. Carver.

  “There was a mistake,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  For a disorienting moment, it seemed as though maybe she wasn’t looking at Red at all, but the real Remy Carver, back from the grave. She’d seen him enough times in photos to recognize his bemused expression and the way he styled his floppy hair. A gold watch shone on his wrist. His crisp white shirt was open at the throat. Even his trousers looked expensive. He gave off the vibe of a golden Labrador, big and friendly.

  But Remy Carver was dead and his body, burned.

  Charlie felt dizzy.

  And even dizzier when the officer unlocked her cuffs.

  “Yes, I’m absolutely sure,” he was saying to the policeman by his side. “Didn’t my lawyers explain?”

  “Charlotte Hall, you are free to go,” the officer said. “For now. Don’t leave town. We might have more questions.”

  “Understood,” Charlie said.

  Her sense of unreality intensified as she stepped into the hall. She half expected Red to look at her as though he didn’t know her.

  Remy could never have loved someone like you.

  Self-consciously, she pushed her hair out of her face.

  “How are you here?” she asked him, which seemed important. Balthazar couldn’t have called him. Red didn’t even have a phone.

  “I told her that I wanted to see that you were free with my own eyes.” Despite saying that, he wasn’t meeting her gaze directly.

  “See me one last time?” Charlie asked, imagining Adeline’s reaction to that request.

  He glanced toward her at that, a corner of his mouth lifting. “Something like that.”

  “Tell me you didn’t accept her terms because of me,” she said, turning toward him. “Because I got arrested.”

  Red steered her along. “We can talk later.”

  In the main room of the building, Charlie was given back her bag, her coat, and her phone. She was allowed to go into a public bathroom, which she used gratefully, then washed her hands three times with antibacterial soap until she felt clean.

  Her reflection in the mirror looked haunted. It bothered her more than she thought it would that she cast no shadow.

  Outside, Red was leaning against the wall, hands in pockets, talking to two people in suits and another officer. The woman sported a designer briefcase, gray pinstripes, and sensible heels; the man was in black with several folders tucked under one arm; and the officer looked as though maybe he was there to escort them. No one turned at her approach until Red did.

  “Ready to go?” he asked her. Even at Solaluna he’d seemed less of a stranger. Here, he was playing his role to the hilt, so much so that it didn’t seem like a role.

  “Sure,” Charlie said, although she had no idea where they were going.

  Outside, snow had fallen, coating the ground in white. The silver Porsche was parked in the spot reserved for the chief of police.

  It was hard to even comprehend the arrogance and privilege that came with staggering wealth.

  “Remy Carver, I presume,” she said.

  He winced, which was a relief.

  “It was the only way,” he told her.

  “They just turned over a prisoner on the say-so of one twentysomething rich boy?”

  “For people like me, there aren’t many rules, but no, it wasn’t quite that simple,” he said, shaking his head. “The state was worried I would pursue a lawsuit for their wrongfully declaring me a dead murderer, so I gave them a written letter stating that I held them blameless. And they gave me you.”

  Red deserved his fortune, deserved it every bit as much as Remy and Adeline. But he would never have chosen this way of getting it. He would never have traded his freedom for cash. No, he’d traded his life for hers.

  “You can’t do this all for me,” Charlie cautioned him.

  He left her, walking toward the driver’s side. “It’s done.”

  Charlie got into the car, a wave of tiredness washing over her. In the cup on the passenger side rested a coffee from Dunkin’. The aroma of it filled the car, banishing the expensive smell of leather.

  “You bought me a coffee,” Charlie said.

  “I did,” he replied. “I might never get my memories back, but I know your coffee order.”

  She took a sip, warming her hands on the cup. “So what happens next?”

  “I take you home,” he told her. “To the new apartment.”

  “And you?” Charlie asked, but she already knew the answer.

  “I’m going home too. To the mansion.”

  Charlie nodded. His life was in Adeline’s hands. Not only did she know his secret, but now she had legal control of him. His lawyers were really her lawyers.

  Red had his old life back. His monstrous life, where he was treated like a monster.

  She thought of him, coming to her like a sky god in the woods, the hushed ice-covered night all around them. Thought of him looking at her in confusion and pain as he told her that his feelings for her were unlike anything he’d ever felt before.

  “I can get you out of this,” Charlie told him. She’d gotten him away from the Cabals twice. She could find a way.

  “Stop trying to save me,” he told her. “It’s my turn to save you.”

  There was nothing else she had to give him and so there was no way to keep him. When he dropped her off at her too-fancy apartment and she leaned over to kiss his soft mouth, it felt like goodbye.

  * * *

  Christmas came and Charlie went to her mother’s place, offering no explanation for Vince’s absence. None of them talked about him. Charlie’s mother tried to get her alone to discuss the confession, but Charlie stuck to the couch and the appetizer tray, even pushing Bob to teach her how to play Magic: The Gathering to keep from getting pulled into the conversation she was steadfastly avoiding.

  “Honey,” her mother said, when she was about to leave. “We need to talk.”

  “We absolutely don’t,” Charlie said. Standing in the doorway, she realized that she no longer wanted her mother’s forgiveness. That beneath all her fear was a burning flame of fury. That maybe she’d been afraid, not of what her mother was going to say, but of what Charlie herself might. “The best thing about not being a child is that no one can make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

  At work, Charlie moved as mechanically and methodically through her shifts as Don could have ever desired. But he still brought up the shifts she’d missed and badgered her about various things he had persnickety ideas about—garnishes, which drinks ought to be shaken, whether amaro was even good. And he still argued with Erin during his breaks, whisper-shouting into his phone.

  One evening, Odette sat at the bar while Charlie mixed orange bitters with simple syrup for an old-fashioned. Balthazar drank an amaretto sour on the other side.

  Don frowned. “You’re supposed to use a sugar cube.”

  Charlie rolled her eyes. “I’m not a purist and no one likes grit in their glass.”

  “It’s not gritty if you muddle it correctly,” he said.

  “Not only am I not going to use a sugar cube,” she told him. “I am going to use a cherry as garnish. And if you keep at me, I am going to add an orange slice too.”

  “If you want to ruin—”

  “I can’t bear watching this anymore,” Odette said, giving an exasperated sigh. “Someone has to give that boy what he wants.”

  “A smack in the face?” Charlie guessed, raising her eyebrows.

  Odette matched her raised eyebrows.

  “Very funny,” said Don.

  Charlie set the finished drink—with cherry, without orange slice—in front of Odette.

  After taking a large sip, the elderly woman slipped off her stool. Tonight, she wore a leopard-print coat dress with a wide belt. Walking behind the bar to where Don stood, she rested her hands on her hips and looked up at him. “Well? Ready to tell us?”

  He appeared nervous.