Page 104 of Because I Killed Him
“Indeed. There are several vital expenses I need to cover. I shall repay you, of course.”
Jack tips down his tortoiseshell sunglasses, peering at her over the top. A beat passes, then he sighs. “All right. Remind me after class.”
“I shall. Thank you, Mr. Carroway.”
Charlotte curtsies gracefully, then slips through the lecture room doors, leaving a faint trail of black orchid perfume.
Seeing Jack and Charlotte treat each other so politely is strange, especially since it’s clear neither is saying what they truly think. Their politeness feels like a thin strip of tape stretched over something broken.
I turn to Dickie, lowering my voice as we enter the lecture room. “Jack and Charlotte… you are not aware of what happened between them, are you?”
“Nah. I was at the Royce Club with them, but I missed the drama.” Dickie squints and strokes his chin, as if he’s as curious as I am. “Jack doesn’t talk about their breakup, not even when he’s a whiskey bottle deep. All I know is that before he and Lady Charlotte walked into the Royce Club, they were wrapped up in each other. And when they walked out, they weren’t.”
“And Edmund?”
Dickie puffs out his cheeks and sighs. “Same story. As soon as Lady Charlotte’s name comes up, he gets dark-eyed and changes the subject.”
“But they were friends?”
“Friends?” Dickie huffs a laugh. “They werewaymore than that, broad.They were like stink on a skunk. Ed used to light up whenever Lady Charlotte walked into a room. He’s got three Aegises, you know—well, hehadthree. He gave one to his big brother for his entourage. But if Ed and Lady Charlotte hadn’t fallen out, I think he would’ve given it to her instead.”
I try to keep my expression neutral, but my thoughts are spiraling. Charlotte tore into Edmund on Harrison’s jet and called all the Blues spiders. The only time she admitted she and Edmund were friends was in the lavatory on the Regal Express, and even then, it was an offhand comment.
I wonder if Charlotte is ashamed.
She told me it was her fault that things went sour between her, Edmund, and Jack. Maybe that’s why she’s rewriting history. If she admits they were truly close, the betrayal becomes uglier, the kind that haunts.
Now, I’m even more curious about what she did. What the hell could’ve happened during a single visit to a private resort that destroyed everything?
“May I ask you something else?” I ask Dickie as we step into an elevator and ride it to the fourth level of the lecture room.
“Depends on what it is,” Dickie says, polishing his Aegis on the embroidered cuff of his suit. “Depends on what it’s gonna cost me.”
“It concerns Mr. Prew’s grandfather. Does he share the opinion that his grandfather abandoned his unit before he was killed?”
Dickie scratches his nose, eyes narrowing. “Now why d’you wanna knowthat?”
“No particular reason. I only heard the story recently and wondered about Mr. Prew’s opinion on the matter.”
“’Course Ed doesn’t think his grandfather turned tail and ran.” Dickie snorts. “The Hellion was a hero. Only people who wanna trash his legacy say otherwise.”
I nod and drop the subject.
Dickie and I exit the elevator on the fourth level, reserved for Blues and their entourages. At first, the luxury of the private booths overwhelmed me. Now, the only thing that surprises me is the Blues themselves. They’re all irritatingly diligent, even though their paths are already paved in gold. Their blood color opens doors faster than any degree or qualification, and yet they still seem to care enough to work for it.
I don’t like it. And I’m not even sure why. Maybe because it’s easier tohate Blues if they have no redeeming qualities.
I keep my head down as I follow Jack and Charlotte toward Edmund’s private booth. At the entrance, Charlotte stops abruptly and lets out a half-strangled gasp. I pull up behind her and peer over her shoulder, seeing a Prew leaning against the balcony railing inside.
It’s not Edmund.
Rosamund pretends not to notice us at first. She slips off her T-strap heels, lifts her chin with the poise of a stage swan, and works through a series of pointe and flex exercises with her foot. Her dark perfumed hair bounces against the curve of her back, and her dress, made of satin-silk so delicate it’s nearly transparent, clings to her figure like sweat. A small brown monkey scampers along the railing of the private booth, pausing occasionally to take a drag from the cigarette between her fingers.
Rosamund sets her hands on the railing and, as she lowers into a deep plié, her eyes meet Jack’s. Her smile lights up her entire face.
“Good day, Mr. Carroway,” Rosamund says.
“Hey, darling.”
