The Last of August (Charlotte Holmes #2)(25)

When I sat back down, I noticed a girl across the bar drawing me.

She was being pretty obvious about it. Her sketchpad was braced against her knee, and she kept sneaking glances at me over the top. She had long glossy black curls and a cute upturned nose, the kind of girl I used to like, when I liked other girls. Before I knew what I was doing, I picked up my drink and headed her way.

Her eyes widened. Then she bit her lip. I was feeling pretty confident.

Well, Simon was feeling pretty confident.

“Hi,” I heard him say. “Are you using charcoals?”

“I am. What do you use?”

“My dashing good looks.” Where was this crap coming from? “What’s your name?”

“Why?” She spoke with an American accent.

“Are you from the States?”

“No,” she laughed. “But my English teacher was.”

Simon sat down next to her. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to tell me the truth, okay, love?” Jesus Christ. “Were you drawing me just then?”

She angled her sketchpad toward her body. “Maybe.”

“Maybe yes or maybe no?” Simon lifted a finger to the bartender, who came right over. “One of whatever she’s having—”

“A vodka soda—”

“A vodka soda.” She hadn’t instantly shot Simon down. He grinned at her. If there was a part of Jamie somewhere in that smile, both he and I decided not to notice. “Is it a maybe yes now?”

Her name was Marie-Helene. She was born in Lyon, in France, but the rest of her family lived in Kyoto. She loved visiting, she said, but really she wanted to live in Hong Kong someday. “It’s like it’s a present place that’s in the future,” she said. She was studying at the Kunstschule Sieben because, when she was a little girl, she’d gotten lost in the Louvre during a family trip to Paris and instead of getting scared, she’d found herself wandering entranced through the Impressionist wing. “I drew water lilies for years after that,” she said. “I made my parents call me Claude, like Claude Monet.”

Simon liked her. More than that, I liked her. She had an impish quality to her, like she was keeping a secret. But a small one, nothing Holmes-sized. She was nothing like Holmes, in fact, and it made me want to cry from relief.

“I was drawing you.”

I snapped back to focus. “What?”

“That look you just had. You had it before, too. Like your grandmother died, but you’re angry about it. It’s—interesting. And a little disturbing.” Marie-Helene turned her sketchbook around to show me. A boy in a stupid hat, staring down at his hands like he could find some answers there.

It was a good drawing. I hated that it was of me.

I forced myself back into my Simon-shaped cage. “I’m more handsome than that, aren’t I?” he asked her.

“Yes.” She toyed with her drink, looking up at me. “You are.”

I didn’t know what to do next, because usually, in this situation, I’d lean in to kiss her. Correction: what I used to do next was lean in, but that was at parties in people’s basements, not bars—would that even work here? It was what Simon would probably do. I wanted to, I did, and still I didn’t want to at all. Should I change the subject? Ask about Gretchen, the art forger Leander had made contact with? About her professors? Should I just kiss her and pretend it didn’t make me nauseous?

The moment passed. She took a sip, then brightened. “Hey!” she said, waving a hand to someone over my head. “Over here!”

In an instant, we were surrounded by chattering girls. One was wearing a paint-splattered backpack, so I figured they were her friends from school. “Everyone,” she said, “everyone, this is Simon, he’s British,” and in the flurry of introductions that followed, I thought I heard the name Gretchen. My pulse quickened.

“I was thinking about going to the Kunstschule Sieben next year,” I yelled over the music. It was disco now, and louder. “I do video installations! Do any of you do video installations!”

“Yes!” the girl next to me yelled back.

“Can I ask you more about it!”

“Friday mornings!”

I wasn’t sure if she’d heard my question, or if her English wasn’t that good, but the crowd of girls was moving now, and Marie-Helene grabbed my hand in hers. An invitation to follow. I threw some money down on the bar, feeling thoroughly triumphant. We’d go to a party. There’d be other students there. Surely someone would know something about Leander, and I could go back to Holmes with information, something that she and August wouldn’t have—

Or would. Because like a nightmare, she and August were standing between us and the door.





five


I HADN’T SEEN THEM COME IN. I’D SAY IT WAS A TESTAMENT to how good their disguises were, but they weren’t dressed to fit in with this crowd. They’d taken the opposite tack from me. August was done up in full douchebag tourist mode, from his gelled hair down to his white sneakers and calf-high socks. Holmes stood beside him, fishing something out of her fanny pack. Her wig, mouse-brown, hung lankly around her face.

She glanced up. Her eyes traveled down to my hand, clasped with Marie-Helene’s, and I thought I saw her blanch.