Page 8 of Thief of Night (The Charlatan Duology #2)

The Journalist

In the back room, Charlie placed ice, wrapped in a bar napkin, to her bruised cheek. Everything hurt.

The DJ had put on the Ramones’ “Merry Christmas (I Don’t Want to Fight Tonight)”—perhaps as commentary—and the beat of it thrummed through the walls. If she hadn’t been in so much pain, she would have laughed.

Odette handed Charlie a glass with whiskey and no ice. Maybe she thought that with so much on her face, she didn’t need any in her drink. “I hate these parties. Do you want me to call someone? An officer of the law?”

Charlie took the glass with a smile and downed her whiskey in one go. “No, no, they’d want to know where Vince went.” She liked her boss a lot, but she particularly liked how little Odette gave a shit about customers who treated the staff badly.

“Your boyfriend didn’t stick around? That’s bullshit,” said Odette’s drag performer friend, whose name turned out to be Hauntress Hysteria Glitterati.

Charlie looked down at her shadow. “Him being here wouldn’t help anything.”

Hauntress raised her eyebrows in a way that made it clear she didn’t think that was the relevant part.

“Well, you rest for a bit,” Odette went on. “Lie down on the couch, and I’ll check on you in an hour. Don can handle things.”

Don would probably be thrilled to handle things.

Hauntress stood. “And if you feel nauseous or see double or anything like that, you need to go to urgent care. Head injuries are nasty. I knew a girl who hit her head onstage and died .”

“Maybe we don’t need to tell her that, dear,” Odette said.

“I’m fine,” Charlie muttered, leaning back and closing her eyes. Her body still hurt from the fight with the Blight the night before. Maybe she should thank Fred for hitting her. At least it gave her an excuse to lie down.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she woke to her phone ringing. Fumbling for it, she answered without thinking, slicing her index finger as she swiped over the broken screen.

“Is this Charlotte Hall?” The voice was unfamiliar.

“Charlie,” she corrected muzzily, sticking her bleeding finger in her mouth. “I don’t want to buy anything.”

“I’m calling from Vulture —part of New York magazine? I want to talk to you about Edmund Carver. I understand that you and he are friends?”

“No,” she said, coming wide awake. “Wait. What?”

“I know you won’t want to reveal anything your friend would want to keep hidden and I know he must have been through a lot, but I can promise that this conversation will be completely confidential unless you say otherwise.”

“I don’t understand,” Charlie said, sitting upright. As soon as she did that, the room tilted alarmingly. For a moment, she had to close her eyes. What was it Hauntress had warned her about head injuries? “How do you have this number?”

“Someone is going to write his story,” the person on the other end of the phone said. “At Vulture, we care about getting things right.”

I want to talk to you about Edmund Carver. I understand that you and he are friends?

Not were friends.

Adeline had told Charlie that she’d had her lawyer working to get Edmund “Remy” Vincent Carver declared “not dead.” She’d already put out the story that Remy had been locked up in the basement of Salt’s mansion.

According to Adeline, as quoted in the Hampshire Gazette, “People venturing down into the bowels of the house after Salt’s death had discovered not just prisons, but Salt’s own son shouting for help. ”

It was a pretty good story. In a better world, maybe it would have even been a true one.

Red will be very wealthy, Adeline had said, back when she’d thought she’d be the one tethered to him. He’ll be able to pick up where Remy’s life ended.

Suddenly, Charlie had a very good guess how a reporter from Vulture had her number.

“So,” Charlie asked the reporter. “How well do you know Adeline?”

There was a long pause. “You got me,” the man said.

“I went to school with a friend of Addy’s.

That’s how she knows I’ll handle her cousin’s story respectfully.

She thought you could let Remy know I was a safe person to talk with.

Since the news broke, he’s been quiet. No statements.

No interviews. He’s not going to be able to do that forever. ”

“Adeline’s technically his aunt. He’s her nephew.” Charlie really hoped that made it into the final article.

There was another pause as the reporter seemed to decide to change tactics.

“Other news outlets will be calling. Remy’s story isn’t going to stay a paragraph in some longer piece about Lionel’s crimes forever.

This is national news. And look, I’m not trying to warn you off of anyone, but there are some unscrupulous people out there. ”

“Unscrupulous people, eh?” Charlie echoed, but her mind was racing.

The reporter gave an appreciative laugh, like he didn’t mind the implication.

“The story is too good,” he said. “Filthy rich guy locks up his good-looking socialite grandson for more than a year while he frames him for murder? And I understand there were drugs involved. Nightly news will be all over this. Morning shows too, especially if he’s willing to cry. He could write a book.”

The reporter was right—audience interest in the wealthy was always intense, and the idea that one of them was engaged in something this lurid was compelling. The sufferings of young, handsome Remy Carver would thrill people.

Too bad young, handsome Remy Carver was actually still dead.

Charlie’s voice wavered, thinking of the scrutiny that was going to be applied to Red. “I’ll tell him you called.”

“We could also talk—you and me,” the reporter said. “Nothing too personal. Everything off the record. Just a few background details. His mother died of a drug overdose, didn’t she? That must have been hard. As his girlfriend—”

“If he wants to talk, he’ll let you know,” Charlie told the guy.

The reporter started to say something else, but Charlie hung up. Then she called Adeline.

“Charlie Hall,” Adeline said in her soft, cultured voice, with just a touch of little-girl breathiness. “Finally. I need to see you. And Red.”

“I don’t know,” Charlie said. “Maybe he’ll be too busy giving a press conference. How many reporters did you contact?”

“I wanted to motivate you to return my calls,” Adeline told her, as though her response had been perfectly logical. “I could pay you for your time, you know.”

Adeline had inherited a large chunk of Salt’s fortune. The amount had been in the paper—a staggering number, in the neighborhood of $400 million. She could certainly afford to bribe Charlie, who currently didn’t even have a working, legally registered vehicle.

“I don’t want your money,” Charlie said.

Adeline gave a little laugh, as though that was an obvious lie. “Red needs to plan his return to the world, and Trevor would be a good first interview. He’s a friend. He’d be patient with Red. We’d practice first, of course. We can talk about it more when you bring him by on Saturday.”

“If you want to see him, you know where I live.” After all, a few weeks after Salt’s death, Adeline sent over two closets’ worth of Remy’s clothing, all of it ridiculously soft and expensive.

“But how do I know when Red will be home?” Adeline asked, all innocence. “You and the Cabals have kept him so busy. People are worried about him. I’ve heard from several of his school friends. Everyone wants to visit. We’re going to have to set up some kind of social calendar.”

“His friends?” Charlie echoed, unsure what to make of that.

“The weekend seems like a good time, don’t you think? Unless you’ve got something else on your agenda.”

Charlie thought of the photos of Remy Carver she’d seen online, from his New York days.

Remy at charity balls in a tuxedo, champagne glass in one hand.

Adeline always nearby. Surrounded by rich, young women with highlighted hair, tweezed brows, and satiny cocktail dresses.

Young men in starched, open-collar shirts with gleaming gold watch bands and movie-star stubble.

Could Red act like that person? Could he be that person? He and Remy had been made of the same memories, after all, the same blood and trauma.

Well, most of the same blood.

“I’ve got work,” Charlie told her. “Pick a different weekend.”

Adeline gave that tinkling laugh again. “Oh, surely we can figure something out.”

“We’ll see.” Charlie’s head was throbbing again. She shouldn’t have answered the phone the first time—and she definitely shouldn’t have called Adeline. She wasn’t in a fit state to match wits with anyone.

Now that she was getting her own way, Adeline was practically congenial. “I’ll text you a time for Saturday.”

“My phone is busted,” Charlie said. “I’m not getting texts right now.”

“Your life is full of so many inconveniences,” Adeline said airily. “Come at eleven for brunch, then.”

“To the house?” Charlie asked, dreading the thought of returning to that place.

“Of course to the house.” Adeline’s voice was impatient. “Where else?”

For a moment, Charlie thought of just hanging up the phone and lying back down. Or just refusing to go. But it seemed Red was about to be Remy Carter, officially alive and officially rich—and she wouldn’t be the person holding him back.

“Don’t give my number to anyone else,” Charlie told her, voice hard. “And if you already did, tell them to forget it.”

“Don’t be—”

“And if you want me as Vince’s chauffeur, no more threatening or extorting or bribing me. Do you understand?”

“You’re the threat, Charlie Hall. Remy was like a brother to me and Red is part of him. It’s not fair for you to keep us from one another.”

Charlie recalled the paparazzi photo she’d seen online, the one that seemed to catch Adeline and Remy engaged in an intimate act on a yacht—something suggesting they didn’t consider themselves siblings, despite growing up together in Salt’s house.

“I’m not keeping you from anything. Arrange your plans with him. ”

There was a long silence from the other end of the line. With all that money, it must be galling that there were things she couldn’t control.

“Fine,” Adeline said. “Put him on.”

“Sorry,” Charlie said sweetly, aware that she was being unreasonable and doing it anyway. “He’s not here right now.” Then she hung up.

Her hands were shaking and her head hurt.

She was almost certain that she hadn’t handled either of those calls well.

And more so when she turned to see Red sitting on a chair beside the coffeepot, hands not entirely solid-looking and shadow rolling off him like low mist. Was he angry? She couldn’t tell.

Charlie sucked in a breath, then forced herself to speak. “Adeline wants us to come by Saturday, but I guess you heard that.”

“Yes,” he said.

“It sounds like you’re officially alive. So, uh, congratulations?”

His gaze swung to her, his eyes full of embers.

Charlie gave a laugh so forced it was embarrassing. She hated that he frightened her, but in that moment, he did.

“I am not Remy Carver,” Red said, voice empty as an echoing tunnel. “She should have let him stay dead.”