Book of Night(57)

“You lied,” Charlie said, meeting his pale eyes.

He didn’t look defensive yet, but he did look wary. “I—”

“Trying to figure out which lie I’m talking about? It must be hard when there are so many,” she snapped. “Edmund Carver.”

“Don’t call me that,” he said.

“Because you prefer Remy? Or because you’re afraid someone will hear?” She’d thought it would feel terrible to confront him, but it felt great to have the nastiness inside her finally spilling out. “Was it hard, to sleep on a mattress on the floor and not between your one-billion-thread-count sheets?”

He shook his head. “I swear to you, it wasn’t like that.”

But when she looked at him, all she saw was the Edmund Vincent Carver of the society pages, disdain in his smoke-colored eyes. Just a little pomade, the tilt of his jaw, and he’d be a stranger. If only she’d observed him more closely, she’d have seen it—picking out that Vacheron Constantin watch at twenty paces, knowing about the vacation homes of the upper class, the fucking love of gossip for fuck’s sake. Not to mention the ability to murder people and believe there would be no consequences.

“Oh, you swear it. Well then, it must be true,” she said, a snarl in her voice.

“I wanted to start over.” Vince’s voice stayed soft. “With no part of my old life. I didn’t want you to see me the way I used to be.”

“That’s a good line. But it doesn’t explain how you’re supposed to be dead,” Charlie told him. “Or how everyone’s looking for a book you stole, including the guy who tried to kill me. Too bad you didn’t keep that in the duffel in the back of our bedroom closet, along with your real license.”

“You went through my things?” The sudden flatness of his voice was unnerving.

But Charlie rushed on, all her hurt finally alchemizing into anger. “That’s right. I found the license. And then I found the newspaper story about how you murdered a girl, and then yourself,” she said. “You want me to feel bad about invading your privacy?”

“Yes,” he said, rubbing his hand over his face. “A little. I don’t know.”

“You know what else? I heard everything you said to Hermes. All of it. That’s when I knew you were lying. And now I know why you killed him—because he recognized you.”

Vince shook his head again, as though he could shake off her words.

“Go on,” she said. “Deny it. Tell me you’re not a pretend person in a pretend relationship.”

“Is that what you really think?” His eyes were bright with a fury she’d never seen before. Shining with rage.

It made her hesitate. “What am I supposed to think? How many people did you kill for Lionel Salt?”

“Lots,” he said, and closed his eyes.

She stared at him in horror. “The girl?”

He shook his head. “No, not Rose.”

“How about the man they found in the car? The body you let everyone think was yours?” Her voice was as cold as she could have hoped, and as relentless.

“I couldn’t make myself stop—” he began.

“—killing?” she finished for him. “My hand slipped and it happened to have an axe in it! Again. Whoops!”

“I’ll go,” he said abruptly, and turned toward the hall to their bedroom.

“You’d rather leave than answer?” she shouted after him.

He kept walking, his hand going to the wall at one point, as though he needed to catch himself. Of course he was going to go. Of course he was only there when she was easy, when everything was easy.

The cat followed him, tail lashing in an accusatory manner.

Charlie followed him. “Okay, where’s the Liber Noctem? How about that? Everyone wants to know. Hermes did.”

“What, so you can steal the book from me?” he asked, yanking open a drawer.

“Ideally,” Charlie told him from the doorway, watching him start to stuff clothes in a bag. “It would sure make me a lot of money.”

He stopped packing. “Salt is playing a game, and someone is playing a game with him. They want to make pawns out of all of us. The worst thing anyone could do is find that book.”

“Okay, explain,” she said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t,” he told her.

“You don’t want to,” she said. “You never wanted me, did you? You only wanted somewhere to hide out and lick your wounds. You never loved me.”

He looked as though she’d slapped him. Then something in his expression shifted, became a locked house at night, alarms set. “What do you know about love?” he said, hefting his duffel onto his shoulder. “I wasn’t the only one who lied.”

Charlie opened her mouth, but of all the things she had been ready to answer for, that hadn’t been one of them. “Maybe I didn’t tell you everything about me, but that’s not the same as pretending to be someone—”

“You’re right,” he shouted, interrupting her. It was frightening to see him let go after so many months of restraint, and there was something in his eyes that made her wonder if he was afraid too. “I couldn’t give you what you needed. I kept things from you. Even if you didn’t know what was wrong, you could tell there wasn’t enough of me. I wish I could say I was sorry, that I wanted to be honest the whole time, but I didn’t. I never wanted to be honest. I just wanted what I told you to be the truth.”