Page 37 of Because I Killed Him
I fall quiet, turning Jack’s words over in my mind. Blues are tribal, often loyal to a fault. They don’t break ranks unless there’s something big to gain or something even bigger to lose. If the whistle came from a high-citizen, it’d be rare. Nearly unheard of.
“No, I’m not exaggerating. At least a hundred people were mobbing us,” Charlotte says as she finishes her story. “How the hell did you guys not see anything?”
Jack raps his knuckles against the window. “Because only the salons on the right side of the train had a view of the platform. Ours is on the left.”
“I’d wager Ed saw it,” Dickie says, reaching for another piece of chocolate cake. “His broad’s salon is on the right.”
“Wait a minute.” I feel a low swoop in my gut. “You’re saying Edmund’s been with his fiancée sincebeforewe left the station?”
“Yeah.” Dickie scratches his nose. “So?”
“So how exactly did Charlotte and I get invited to his salon?”
Silence.
“Jack…” Charlotte clutches the sides of her face, her voice stretched with dread. “Pleasetell me you called Edmund.”
“Of course, I did.” Jack tosses the cards onto the table. “But he didn’t pick up.”
“Oh, hell.” Her voice jumps an octave. “Oh, hell. Oh, hell.”
“Relax, broad.” Dickie pats Charlotte on the back. “Jack and I are allowed to have guests.”
“Nottheseguests,” she snaps, jabbing a finger at herself, then at me.
Jack looks me over. “Ed doesn’t use Bliss.”
“But his bloodsucking tick of a twin does,” Charlotte fires back. “How the hell could you do this to us?”
“I would’ve waited for a call-back, darling, but when you told me you were dying, I took it asurgent.”
“Not as urgent as it’s about to be.” Charlotte grabs her handbag like a weapon. “Lore, we need to go.”
But I’m already halfway to the door. I knew it. I knew the second we entered Edmund’s salon that this couldn’t be a free pass. Whether he uses Bliss or not doesn’t matter. If he finds us here without an invitation, he might report us for trespassing or, worse, offer us a choice to stay in exchange for something I can’t afford to give.
I reach the door and try to turn the handle, but it won’t budge. At first, I think the handle is jammed, until I feel resistance and realize someone else on the other side is trying to open the door, too. I step back as a silhouette shifts behind the stained glass, and the door slides open with a bang that rattles the panes.
“Well…” says a deep, lilting voice. “Isn’t that a daisy?”
The Blue in the doorway is so tall that he has to lower his head to meet my eyes. When he does, I see the salty-smelling sweat; it clings to him like mist, streaming across his flushed skin, dripping from his mussed, dark brown hair, down the proud set of his face, and pooling at the base of his throat. His white dress shirt hangs open, with three buttons torn clean off. There’s a fresh cut above one eyebrow, two more slashes across his cheeks. From the smear of lipstick on his jaw and the fact that he was just with his fiancée, I don’t need to guess what he was doing.
Edmund looks at me, his breath slightly ragged, his blue eyes cold as something floating in the sea. Then he turns to Charlotte, and his mouth slants in shock, as if he’s trying to match her to a memory that no longerfits. For a moment, something close to grief flickers across his face.
Then his hands curl into fists. Rage flashes through him as his shoulders drop low, the kind of crouch you see in animals before they leap.
I swing toward Charlotte protectively. She’s pinned to the table, arms stiff at her sides, jaw held at an upward tilt. Her gaze remains fixed on Edmund’s, even as her body betrays her. One foot jerks back, and her mouth twitches as if she wants to speak, maybe to explain, but she remains silent.
Jack gets up from the table with a sudden, drunken stumble. “It was me, Ed. I invited them.”
The fury on Edmund’s face falters, veers off course, and crashes headlong into confusion. His head whips toward Jack. “Why? Back to get burned twice?”
Jack’s jaw tightens, then he sighs and throws his empty shot glass onto the table. “It’s messy, Ed. I know. But—”
“Someone put a hit out on the Bliss girl,” Dickie cuts in, nodding at me. “Or that’s what Lady Charlotte claims.”
“Maybe it wasn’t a hit,” Jack says. “Maybe they’d have been fine. But I wasn’t willing to take that gamble.”
“Gamble?” Edmund turns on me, and as he steps closer, the air thickens with cologne-laced sweat and the woody tang of cigar smoke. I hold my breath, waiting for him to recognize me from Bogart’s broadcast. But his expression doesn’t change. He gives me a quick, feral once-over, the kind you give a carcass to see if the meat is suitable. Then he leans in, close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him. His nostrils flare as the stench from my train seat hits.
