Page 48 of The Devil Wears Orange
“I’ve named itThe Charlotte, after my great friend, Charlotte Milton. I’m thinking of you, Charlotte,” Jane says to the camera. Onscreen, the program flashes various social media comments – most incredibly nasty, with only one in support of me – which Marlene Baker reads aloud. Each post verbalized smacks me with shame.
“They’re opinions from nobodies,” I mumble to myself.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Charlotte,” says Jack.
Then the camera cuts to a nervous Anne. She mumbles in a monotone whisper as though reading off a teleprompter. “Charlotte Milton has not been charged because they’ve found no evidence against her, yet.”
Yet?
Harriet suddenly appears on screen. “Of course, she’s innocent,” she practically screams.
A swell of gratitude blooms in my chest. “This heist required clever planning that only a megalomaniac could have pulled off, and you’d be truly impressed with how depressingly bland Charlotte Milton is.”
“Oh, no, I’m doomed.” I moan, shaken by thedepressingly blandlabel, and throw myself backward on the bed.
“Charlotte,” Jack shouts, “where are you?”
“Dubai.”
“Yes, but where in Dubai? I’ll see how quickly I can get there.”
For each day that has passed since the theft in Paris, I have fooled myself into believing my reputation can be restored, but social media, and now mainstream media, have made me realize that rescuing my name is impossible. I have been utterly destroyed. Of course, I can always change my name and live in a small town where no one knows me, but what good will any of that do if my history is forever plastered on the world-wide-web?
“Charlotte, where in Dubai?”
I give a desperate laugh. “I should change my name.”
“What? Charlotte, are you traveling under a pseudonym?”
I don’t understand why; maybe it’s the shock of my situation, but Jack’s question has me erupt in laughter. “Yes, Professor, I am. I’m an extremely connected woman. Russian mob. Arms dealers. That painting is nothing compared to what I’m involved in now.” I succeed in silencing him again, so much so thatI sit up on one elbow, wondering if we’ve been disconnected. “Jack? ...Jack, are you there?”
Finally, I hear his voice, low and quiet.
“Please, tell me where you are.”
I sigh. What am I doing? He’s the only one who hasn’t judged me.
After I provide him with the hotel details and arrange a rendezvous, I say, “Look, Jack, I’ll see you later when your plane gets in but I’ve got to go now. I just received some devastating news and need to bury my head somewhere.” I disconnect then hug the phone to my chest, contemplating if this latest PR catastrophe will deem me unemployable in Rashid’s eyes. If he fires me (though he hasn’t officially hired me yet), then I’ll never be able to prove my innocence.
Quickly, I key “Charlotte Milton” into YouTube’s search function. The first video displayed is the one of me dangling from the helicopter. It’s received three million views.
Chapter 26
Both men speak intandem, picking up where the other left off. One of the men holds a laptop, his fingers flip through slides of their real estate endeavor complete with near lifelike computer drawings. The building is too tall and fantastical, and expensive. It’s something Rashid has heard before, and he can’t understand why these developers aren’t better informed about where his interests lie, but of course, this is the result of continuing to live under his father’s shadow.
“Gentlemen, I apologize for the interruption, but you must understand I am not my father. This is too grandiose a venture for me, and I absolutely did not buy that land to build something more elaborate than the last one built in this city. People need affordable homes.”
Briefly, the men fall silent. “Of course, we understand. This project is tailored specifically with you in mind,” says the one with the laptop. “The next slide will show you the projections with numbers that have been vetted. We can slip in a couple ofaffordable–” (Rashid swears he hears contempt in his voice at the wordaffordable) “studios. We expect to sell the minimum number of units in a short period after launch. In fact, we’re working on a waitlist for this is luxurious living at its best.”
Rashid laughs. These two, he determines, can’t read the room. The other man jumps in, his words quick and desperate to close the deal. But as he drones on, Rashid scans the hotel restaurant. Nearly half, he assumes, are wealthy tourists – lawyers and executives, the unemployed children of the rich, and a celebrity that one of the developers pointed out as a YouTube sensation. The other man sitting with the YouTuber is either a Los Angeles director or a Silicon Valley tech guy. Those are the only professions that can explain the white sneakers, baseball hat and hoodie, as well as the casualness in which he slumps back in his chair, one foot resting on his knee like he’s in the comfort of his own home. Then, a recognizable face enters the restaurant.
“Will you excuse me, gentlemen,” says Rashid, and quickly approaches Omar by the entrance. He sweeps Omar away from the hostess. “Where is Ms. Milton? You’re not to leave her alone.”
Omar glances to the floor, his voice quiet. “I don’t know where she is.”
“It’s your job to know,” says Rashid, keeping the volume of his voice low.
“She didn’t tell anyone she was leaving. I checked her room, and she’s gone.”
