“Bullshit.” Charlie met his gaze, determined to show him that she didn’t care. “Get out of here. This is a private party.”

  “Does that mean the booze is free?” he asked, his grin turning into the same smile that had persuaded a lot of people to make a lot of mistakes.

  “Get out,” Charlie repeated. “Before I call the cops and tell them you’re harassing me.”

  “You’re not going to do that,” he said, smirking. “I know you’ve got some game going. You always do.”

  “I’m retired,” she told him.

  “Sure you are.” He smiled, looking more certain with every minute. “Look, I’ll see you around, okay? We can talk more.”

  Charlie put her hands on the bar top and lowered her voice. “If I see you again, I am going to bury you.”

  His smile flagged. He’d never been the tough guy; that had been his brother. Mark was just a grifter. She hoped he was canny enough to disappear into the world like a drop of water into the ocean.

  But Charlie’s hands were still shaking as she poured a line of shots.

  An elderly, white-haired man in a gray pin-striped suit walked out of Odette’s office, looking deeply uncomfortable. He was almost certainly the gentleman Don had told her about, the one her boss had been entertaining in the back. She hoped the stylists wouldn’t mind yet another stranger crashing their party.

  For her part, Charlie was glad for the distraction. She glanced toward Don, who was shaking up a martini. On the shelf next to him, his phone buzzed over and over.

  When she walked past, she saw the name “Erin” light up the screen. Don’s girlfriend. The last time Charlie had seen them together was at Barb and Aimee’s place. She’d been there for a late-night hang-out and stumbled into an intense argument that they were having in the kitchen about which of them had been mean to the other first. Don had been crying and trying to hide it. Charlie had sympathized. She’d cried at parties plenty of times herself.

  But she was still reeling from Mark’s visit, and the buzzing phone felt like an alarm.

  The elderly man in the pin-striped suit stood expectantly at the bar. She knew him, she realized. It wasn’t his face she recognized. It was his watch—the Vacheron Constantin that Vince had spotted on his wrist back when the man had scuttled into the bar the month before, trying to avoid being spotted by parking in the back.

  He was one of Odette’s longtime clients, one of the reasons she was only a semi-retired dominatrix.

  “What do you have back there that’s expensive?” he asked.

  Charlie raised her eyebrows. They had nice liquor, but given he was wearing an accessory that cost as much as a new car, she wasn’t sure what would impress him.

  “We have a twenty-five-year Macallan for two hundred dollars a pour.” They had a few scotches and bourbons that were about fifty or sixty dollars per, but nothing close to the Macallan.

  “I’ll have a double,” the man said, peeling off four hundred-dollar bills and two twenties. “She told me to tell you that it should be straight up, in the dish, please.”

  Charlie hadn’t been asked for that in a while. Reaching under the cabinet, she brought out a stainless steel dog bowl. The woman with the snake looked intrigued.

  Charlie poured two generous shots of scotch directly into the dog bowl and swished them around before placing the whole thing on the floor just outside the bar.

  A few of the stylists noticed something interesting going on and crowded around.

  The man slowly went down on his hands and knees and began lapping up the scotch. Charlie could see spots of color bloom on his cheeks. He must be humiliated, given how uncomfortable he’d been already. Truly, Odette was evil.

  Most of the onlookers appeared amused, a few seemed horrified, and at least one was definitely intrigued. Charlie caught a few eyes, shrugged, and took some drink orders.

  “Can I have my beer like that?” one of the women with a wolf cut asked.

  “Costs extra,” Charlie told her.

  “Is he going to bark like a dog next?” a guy with bleached hair asked, nudging his friend.

  “If she tells him to,” Charlie answered, nodding to Odette, who’d come out of the back and was heading to the bar in a neoprene black dress and red boots that laced to her knees.

  “Damn,” the guy said.

  “Damn,” the woman with the snake agreed.

  Charlie poured more drinks. When the bleached-hair guy was done, he and his friend left her a generous tip, as though they were hoping to ward off the evil eye.

  “So, how are we doing, Marni?” Odette asked the woman with the snake. She—Marni—must have been the salon owner.

  “It’s a good party,” Marni said, with a nod toward the man on the floor. “But not as good as the one you were having.”

  After finishing the scotch, the elderly man in the suit got slowly to his feet, brushed his jacket off with dignity, and, with a bow of his head to Odette, walked toward the door.

  “Good puppy,” she called after him.

  “Can I get you an aviation?” Charlie asked her boss, already reaching for the gin.

  Odette smiled at her. “Perfect, darling.”

  On the stage, the stylist with the black lipstick was singing along to “Anti-Hero,” impressively off-key. Charlie placed the pale purple drink in front of Odette, the coupe glass frosted with cold.

  “You’ve got everybody well trained around here,” Marni said. “Well, except for him.”

  Charlie and Odette followed her gaze to Don, who’d given up texting and was now huddling in a corner of the bar, yell-whispering into the phone.

  “Oh?” Odette swirled a finger in her drink.

  “It’s his girlfriend,” Charlie said. “I think they’re fighting.”

  Odette sighed. “Well, so long as they like it.”

  “He doesn’t seem the type, does he?” Charlie would have expected Don to just break things off when they were hard, given how little patience he seemed to have in general.

  “Oh, I don’t know. He argues with you plenty. Maybe he likes to fight,” Odette said. “Hopefully, she likes it too. True love can be ugly.”

  “You’re a cynic,” Marni said, gesturing toward the door the elderly man had recently gone through. “Maybe you only see the ugly side.”

  “No,” Odette told her. “Love should be ugly.”

  Charlie frowned in confusion. She couldn’t help thinking of Mark and the scarred knot of skin where the bullet had struck her.

  Odette finished off her drink, then pointed the empty glass at Charlie. “You’re young. You probably still think relationships are all about being careful not to bruise one another.” Then she turned the glass to Marni. “You have no excuse.”

  “Aren’t they?” Charlie asked. Perhaps, as a dominatrix, this was an area where metaphors about bruising got a little complicated. “Or at least, shouldn’t they be?”

  The laugh Odette gave was harsh. “And what happens when you can’t live up to that?”

  Charlie’s thoughts shifted to Vince and how careful she’d been around him, how much she tried to hide herself. How thoroughly he’d hidden himself from her. How they might have loved one another, but never actually knew one another. Then she thought of Red, and felt out of her depth. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Odette sighed. “You imagine yourself like actors, Vaseline on the lens, hiding your flaws. But you should want someone to kiss your scars. Someone who’ll catch your vomit in their hands. Who’ll love you just as much if you get so drunk you piss the bed—or if you need a fucking catheter and a piss bag. True love has to take stink along with sweetness.”

  Charlie’s heart sped with nameless panic. “People aren’t like that.”

  Odette gave her a puzzled look. Marni was watching them, not weighing in.

  “Everything costs something,” Charlie clarified, searching for solid ground. She felt unreasonably panicked by Odette’s words.

  Odette shrugged as though that were obvious, but not particularly meaningful. “You give and get.”

  No, Charlie wanted to insist. People only love you if you make it worth their while. No one loves you once they see your weaknesses. No one loves your flaws. No one loves your ugly, broken parts. No one loves you and expects nothing more than your love in return. Instead she blurted, “Who goes first?” As soon as the words left her mouth, she wondered if they made sense. Especially since they’d started this conversation talking about Don and Erin.

  Odette didn’t look confused, though. “Ah,” she said. “Now that is the tricky part.”

  13

  Rose

  Once her shift was over, Charlie crossed the parking lot of Rapture. Her hand was in her pocket, touching the papers that Balthazar had given her. A map to the missing piece of Red, the part that might restore his memories and bring him back to her.

  Vincent. Bring Vince back to her. That’s what she meant.

  She made a sharp noise of surprise as she realized Red was walking beside her, matching his stride to hers. Her hand flew to her chest. There had been too many surprises recently. Her nerves were shot.

  “You told me that I didn’t need to disappear all the time,” he accused. Tension hunched his shoulders.

  “Right,” she said. “Good.”

  He nodded once and seemed to relax a little.

  The van’s engine wheezed when she turned it on. Her own car had stalled out completely months before—and the cost to fix it had been more than the car was worth. That left her with Vince’s van—a vehicle he owned but had never registered or insured, considering he wasn’t a person with a Social Security number, or even a license. If the van broke down too, she wasn’t sure what she would do next.

  “Tell me about Mark,” he prompted.

  She shook her head, not ready for that conversation. “Let’s talk about the guy who drank out of the dog dish.”

  He gave a small shrug. “Quincy Crowninshield.”

  “Wait. You know him?” She was pissed. Vince hadn’t told her that. He’d just told her about the watch.

  “Crowninshield Construction owns half of Western Massachusetts,” Red said, oblivious to the deceptions of his past self. “One of Salt’s cronies—not someone who knew him well, but someone he spent time with at the local country club.”

  “Gross,” she said.

  He met her gaze. “Make serving him scotch out of a dog bowl more gratifying?”

  She smiled. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Did you know Don fights with his girlfriend in the parking lot sometimes?”

  Charlie blinked in surprise. “Whaaaaaat?”

  Red gave her his familiar half-smile, reminding her of how much he’d always loved gossip. “And Balthazar meets Bellamy behind Rapture occasionally. It doesn’t seem entirely professional.”

  She laughed as she pulled onto the highway, realizing how well he’d distracted her from Mark. It was a kind thing to do.

  “I’m going to drive by the church,” she told him.

  “You think there’s anything to see?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Probably not.” Charlie was operating on instinct. She would have cased the place if she was going to steal from it, so she figured it would be a familiar way to start an investigation.

  The Grace Covenant Church sat in a sleepy corner of a main road in Hatfield, Massachusetts, a town that looked straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Graceful old houses with red bows and tasteful wreaths on their doors sat beneath canopies of trees.

  Charlie parked across the street from the church. At that time of night, no other car was on the road. Most of the lights inside the houses were already out. A few fake candles winked in windows and holiday lights twinkled from bushes.

  Behind the church, an old graveyard stretched toward some woods. That would be the path she’d take out of there if she were the killer, even if she were a Blight.

  A police car cruised down the street, slowing as it passed the van. When it didn’t stop, Charlie let out her breath. But two blocks away, it started to turn around.

  “Time to go,” Charlie said, hoping the cop wasn’t running her plate. She pulled the van onto the road, heading out of town. The police car didn’t follow.

  Her phone rang and she jumped, jerking the wheel so that the van swerved in the road.

  She didn’t feel any better when she realized who was calling.

  Vicereine. Oh right, because the head of the alterationists had wanted to talk to Charlie. And since it had turned out she wasn’t the one who dragged Charlie out of her house, Charlie had left her hanging.

  Charlie positioned the phone against her shoulder, so that it would sit there while she drove. “Sorry, my phone was busted and—”

  “A lawyer contacted me,” Vicereine said. “He wanted to make me aware that Remy Carver is about to become very wealthy and that I would be doing myself a favor to get out of his way. I informed that person that they must be mistaken, as Vincent is no more Remy Carver than Adeline Salt is her own reflection in the mirror.”

  Red stiffened in the passenger seat. His eyes darkened, as though they were about to burn. Reaching over, he took the phone and hit the speaker button. “What else did the lawyer say?”

  “He wanted to know if I was going to tell anyone else what I’d just told him.” Vicereine sounded surprised to hear Red’s voice.

  “And are you?” Charlie asked, thinking of the journalist who’d called her.

  “Not unless there’s a reason I should,” Vicereine said, annoyance in her voice. “But if I’m asked, you can hardly expect me to lie.”

  Which was a warning, but also a reason to be grateful. Charlie hated being grateful.

  “Aren’t you glad you didn’t make Adeline the Hierophant?” she asked. “Just imagine how many times her lawyer would have called you then.”

  “If she thinks she can buy the Cabals,” Vicereine said, “we’ll bury her. You should let her know that. Remind her to whom you’re beholden.”

  “She wants Vince,” Charlie corrected. “Not me.”

  Vicereine snorted. “Him, she believes she already owns.”

  “And you don’t?” Charlie asked.

  Vicereine made an impatient sound. “If you didn’t want it to be this way, you shouldn’t have put a collar around your own neck and handed us the leash, Charlie Hall.”

  Then she hung up.

  “That could have gone worse,” Charlie said, but Red was looking out the window, lost in thought.

  When they got back to the house, Charlie turned to him.

  “You can sleep in the bed with me if you want,” she said, courting humiliation and determined to see it through. “I promise I won’t hit on you or anything like that.”

  He studied her, his expression unreadable. “You’re very beautiful.”

  She kept her face carefully neutral. “Maybe you don’t like beautiful. Everyone has a type.” Charlie flopped down on the bed and tried to kick off her boots. They were laced up, but not so tightly that she didn’t think it might eventually work.

  Red caught her calf. Going down to one knee in front of Charlie, he undid her laces as though she were a child, then pulled off her boots, one and then the other. When he was done, she slid her feet away from him and under the covers, pretending not to still feel the warmth of his hands on her skin. Pretending not to be in any way affected.

  Red lay down at the very edge of the mattress.

  Still mostly dressed, Charlie closed her eyes and tried to ignore the nearness of his body, the softness of his mouth, and the hardness of his jaw. His lashes, bright as gold when the moonlight caught them.

  Her bra was still on. Her onyx necklace dug into her chest. She was never going to be able to sleep like this.

  Her thoughts circled between her memory of Mark, standing in Rapture with that familiar false smile. The bullet hitting her windshield. Red speaking in her head: I’ll kill him. If you want. Around, again and again.

  Then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a shadow near the window move. It slid across the floor in the way no shadow should.

  Charlie shut her eyes automatically, playing possum. Stupid, but she’d done it, so she might as well take a moment to think. The weapon that had been most consistently successful against Blights was fire and her lighter was in her purse. If she moved fast, she might be able to get to it, but that was a very small flame.

  “Red.” A strange, scraping voice came from the shadow—a woman’s voice, sounding like metal against metal. Charlie’s breath caught. A Blight that could reason, that could talk, was very, very dangerous.

  Maybe even as dangerous as him.

  “You.” Red’s voice was low. Charlie felt the mattress move as he rose.

  Red knew this thing? Fuckityfuckingfuck.

  “Come with me,” the shadow rasped.

  There was a long silence. Charlie opened her eyes just in time to see both shadows going out through the window. A moment later, she sat up, her hand pressing over her speeding heart as though she could slow it with pressure. At least Posey wasn’t home. Her sister had been spending more and more nights out, creeping home near dawn. Though it had worried Charlie that there were secrets between them, now she was grateful.

  Sliding out of bed, she shoved her feet back into her boots. She had to know what was happening. Throwing on her clawed-up coat, she went out the front door as quietly as she could and into the night. If she concentrated, she was able to follow a pulling sensation from somewhere in the center of her body, drawing her toward him. She could feel the distance, and if she looked down, in the moonlight, she could just make out the skein of shadow that bound them, thin as a cobweb.

  Cold air bit her cheeks and gusts blew her hair around her face, but she could hear voices, not far from where she stood. She moved closer, crouching beneath a low bush to remain hidden. Her legs were already starting to feel numb with cold.

  “Thought I died?” the shadow woman asked. “Or tried never to think about me at all? Blot out the old days?”