Page 39 of Thief of Night
The woman crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him. He didn’t push her away, nor did he relax into her embrace, but stood frozen as a statue. His height and the broadness of his shoulders emphasized her birdlike smallness.
“I am so sorry,” she said, drawing back. “I thought you blamed me for your mother—oh, it doesn’t matter what I thought. I should have never let you go to him. Just please understand that if I’d known, if I’d had the least hint, I would have done everything I could to get you away.”
“I remember living with you,” he said slowly, as though puzzling through a dream. “A long time ago. You read me fairy tales.”
She nodded. “Your mother insisted that you leave with her—and when Lionel wound up with custody of you, I thought you were safer. Oh, I was a fool.”
“You wrote R—me letters,” he said. “On my birthday.”
Red was forcing himself to say “wrotemeletters” and “mybirthday” for Fiona’s sake, but there was an anguish in his expression that made Charlie wonder if he’d wanted those letters to be for him, if sometimes he’d pretended that they were.
His grandmother smiled. “I’m glad you got them. I wish I had done much more.”
Red stood there for a long moment. “Charlie and I have to go,” he blurted out.
For a moment, an uncomfortable silence filled the room.
“But we’re going to have brunch,” Adeline reminded him.
“I can’t,” Red said with the intensity of someone running out of oxygen in a shrinking room.
Fiona took a step back, looking down at her hands. Perfectly manicured, a cocktail ring on her middle finger so big it looked like it couldn’t possibly be studded with real diamonds and emeralds. She turned it idly, nervously. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have surprised you like this.”
A few moments ago, Charlie had been as desperate to leave as Red, but now she felt terrible. Was Fiona a bad person? She didn’t seem like one. Her spontaneous apology had seemed heartbreakingly sincere. And Odette had liked her. “R-Remy, are you sure?”
“It’s okay. I’ll be in town for a few weeks,” Fiona told Red, hand on his arm. “I’d like to sit down and talk with you about what really happened back then. And I’d like to hear about your life now.” Her gaze went to Charlie. “You must be Charlotte.”
“Charlie Hall,” she said, lifting her hand awkwardly in a half wave.
The woman looked at her intently, as though something about her grandson could be divined from Charlie’s appearance. “And you two are together?”
Charlie was conscious of how the makeup she’d used to cover her black eye wasn’t that great. How her clothes were cheap and her perfume was coffee. The most expensive thing she was wearing were her tattoos.
“Yeah,” she lied, because it was a better explanation for how they were connected than the real one. “I should apologize for our short visit. We were out late last night and haven’t had a lot of sleep.”
That made them sound like hard partiers and possibly drug addicts. But it was at least some excuse.
“Well, then we won’t keep you,” Fiona said. “Charlie, would you have lunch with me sometime?”
“Me?” She hadn’t been expecting that at all. And for a moment, she wondered if she’d met someone far better at manipulating people than Salt had ever been.
“Both of you, if you’re willing,” Fiona said. “Say, tomorrow?”
“Sounds good,” Charlie agreed, because to say anything else would just delay their getting out of there. If Red wanted to slither out of the lunch date, he could do it later, over text, like everyone else.
Red simply headed for the door, eschewing all the rituals of goodbyes. Charlie gave Fiona an apologetic smile before following him.
He went to the keypad at the three-bay garage, pressing buttons.
“I can call a cab—” Charlie started, scrounging for her phone. “What are you doing?”
The garage door farthest on the left started to tilt as it rose.
Inside, each bay was big enough to accommodate two cars each, plus mowers and trimming machines for the lawn, and a wall of labeled tubs full of what appeared to be holiday decor. The matte black Rolls-Royce Phantom Mansory Conquistador, an object of envy to every car nut in the Valley, squatted nearby, oozing menace. Red walked past it to a silver Porsche 911, opened the door, and swiped the key fob resting on the dash.
Charlie opened her mouth to object.
“Get in.” His voice was flat, final.
