Page 80 of Because I Killed Him
The crunch of broken crystal echoes beneath his patent leather shoes as he quickens his stride through an arched doorway into a private bar, where poker and billiards tables sit unused beneath stained-glass ceiling lamps. By the bar, Charlotte huddles in a blanket, her legs drawn to her chest. Jack and Dickie flank her, Jack frowning through the upturned visor of his hoverbike helmet, Dickie stroking her shoulder comfortingly. Charlotte’s face is mostly hidden beneath the blanket, but I see enough to know she’s shaken.
Edmund halts beneath the doorframe. He towers there, glaring, his gaze ricocheting between Jack and Dickie like a blade seeking its mark.
“But, Ed,” Dickie says, stepping away from Charlotte, guilt flashing in his eyes. “Wehadto help her. She was out cold, and—”
Edmund snaps his fingers. “Dining room.”
Dickie shoots an uneasy glance at Jack, who grabs a bottle of whiskeyfrom the bar. He pops the cork, his expression grim as he follows Edmund out. The instant the door closes, anger erupts in muffled roars. Voices clash and overlap until I can’t tell who’s shouting what.
Still wrapped in the blanket, Charlotte pulls it higher around her head. Her silence is heavy, somehow louder than the fight raging next door. I search for signs of injury as I approach. Nothing. At least, nothing visible. I reach for the light switch to get a better look.
“Don’t.” Her voice wavers, barely a whisper.
I pull back and study her huddled shape. The blanket is wrapped around her tighter than a shoelace knot. “Why not? Char, what the hell happened?”
Charlotte’s throat works as she swallows, and her fingers twist the corner of the blanket. “The shot I chose was spiked,” she rasps. “After the Coppers left, I blacked out. When I woke up, Jack was carrying me out.” She pauses, her words faltering. “Well… most of me.”
“Most?” The word burns my throat.
Charlotte hesitates, and her eyes dart to the shadows as if they might offer escape. Then, slowly, she lowers the blanket.
The sight knocks the air clean out of my lungs.
Her hair… It’s gone. It’s been shaved into a jagged, uneven buzz cut that reveals the curve of her skull.
“Go ahead.” Charlotte pulls the blanket back up with shuddering hands. “Say it. I’m hideous.”
“Char, no—”
“You don’t have to lie,” she says flatly. “I might as well not have my head.”
My voice stutters as shock catches up. “But I sent three Pinkies to protect you.”
“Yeah, and Rosamund cut them all to pieces.”
“Rosamund? How do you know it was her?”
Charlotte’s jaw hardens, fingers digging into the blanket. A tear trembles at the corner of her eye, and she brushes it away with a rough swipe. “Because she left a mark.”
Charlotte turns her head to reveal the back of her scalp, where a deep, jagged cut in the shape of anRsplits the skin. As I stare at the sharp edges, realizing a saber blade was used, the room seems to warp around me.
I don’t remember kneeling or reaching for Charlotte. All I know is that I’m holding her now, clutching her so tightly it feels like I’m trying to hold in my guts. I always thought the worst part of my weapons restriction was that I couldn’t defend myself. Now I realize what’s truly worse: being powerless to protect the people I love.
“You told Jack, right? Now he knows who—”
“No. The minute he asked me who did it, I knew it was pointless. He only sees what he wants to see.”
I think Charlotte is wrong. I think Jack might see Rosamund differently if he knew. But I don’t press. I search for a solution, anything that could help her. Rosamund must’ve realized how much Charlotte’s hair meant to her, how it was the only part of herself she didn’t pull apart and scrutinize.
I try to keep my voice gentle, but it comes out rough, sharpened by my anger. “I’ve got a hair growth cream in my suite. It’ll take a few weeks, but—”
“Wait,” Charlotte gasps, snatching my hand. The blanket slips from her shoulders as she leans in, examining the dried blood on my knuckles. “Who the hell did this?”
“Irene,” I say. “She tried to kill me, so I joined Edmund’s entourage.”
Charlotte’s slow, blinking reaction is more restrained than I expected. She pulls a cigarette case from her pocket, sniffing as a tear slides down the edge of her nose. The flame trembles as she lights a cigarette with a flick of her thumb. “Guess you were right, then,” she says.
“About what?”
