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IX

Charlotte sits on the roof till almost dawn.

Till the anger has burned out, left a hollow in its wake.

She stands and forces herself to go downstairs, exhaustion dragging at her edges as the sun comes up, but she doesn’t rest. Instead, Charlotte cleans the flat, washes the dishes, puts everything back in its proper place.

The books. The clothes. The silver brush (she wipes her fingerprints off the handle—she’s heard they use those now, in solving crimes).

She fixes everything but Penny, who still lies curled like a child on the bedroom floor, the skin drawn taut over her bones.

Charlotte collapses on the sofa until dusk.

Then sits up and reaches for the phone.

It rings, and rings, and rings, but finally, he answers. “White Thorn Black Roast.”

“What happened to the White Thorn Club?” she asks.

Ezra’s voice loosens, just a little. “Got a facelift. Haven’t you heard? Grunge is out. Caffeine is in.” The heady beat no longer hangs behind him. In its place, she can just make out the rise and fall of Debussy. Charlotte tries to laugh, but can’t. She coughs, and feels the tears well up instead.

“What’s wrong, Lottie?”

She closes her eyes, imagines he’s right there, sitting across from her, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, one knee bouncing restlessly beneath the table.

She talks, and Ezra listens—he always listens—but when she’s done, he doesn’t tell her it will be okay.

He doesn’t tell her anything. In her mind, his mouth is pinched, his brows drawn.

“Did I do the wrong thing?” she asks, knowing Ezra will not coddle her.

And he doesn’t.

“By killing her or loving her?” he counters.

Charlotte flinches. “You told me I was being paranoid.”

“Yes, well, I guess we’ve both been proven wrong.”

Someone calls for Ezra. She hears a chair scrape back, a muffled Be right there .

Charlotte folds forward, presses her forehead to her knees. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Be alone,” he says, and the thought is enough to break her.

“It’s too hard,” she whispers. “I try, and try, but—”

“For fuck’s sake, Lottie,” snaps Ezra. “Either these girls’ lives matter more than your need for love, or they don’t.”

And there it is, the brutal truth, hanging on the line, accompanied by the soft bars of “Clair de lune.” He’s right. She knows he’s right. It is her heart. That is what Sabine laid claim to.

“Is that how you get by?” she asks. “Alone?”

“Well, I don’t have a homicidal ex,” he says. “But yes. Humans live short and fragile lives. That is why we either take the ones we love and make them like us, or enjoy their company and let them go. Take them into your bed, if you like, but not your heart, and maybe they’ll get out alive.”

She swallows. “Isn’t it lonely?”

“It doesn’t have to be. After all, loneliness is just like us,” says Ezra. “It has to be invited in.”