Confessions on the 7:45(46)

“It crossed my mind.”

Charlie looked stricken, which was not what she expected from him. He was cool, slow in his speech, not reactionary. She’d expected him to calmly offer her a yes or a no.

“I—cared about Stella,” he said, his voice soft. “I wanted to be with her, but she didn’t want me like that. While I was with her, I grew to care about you. I’ve made mistakes in my life, done things I’m not proud of, yeah. But I’d never hurt anyone—not like that.”

She flashed again on Stella’s broken body. She did feel something, a twist in her gut. But the feeling didn’t have a name. She watched his face; he didn’t break her gaze. Finally, she looked away.

“So, if the police find who killed her, they’ll think that he did something to me, right?” she said. “They’ll assume I’m dead, too.”

Charlie watched her, some of the color returning to his cheeks. “Maybe.”

The sun was setting outside the picture window, the sky turning a painted pink, purple, and orange. She was still hungry. She felt like she could eat another full meal, and then keep eating until she’d devoured the whole world. And then she’d still be hungry.

“So far, they have no leads, except for the fact that I’m missing, too,” said Charlie. “That’s made me a person of interest. My DNA is not in the system; I don’t have a record. So even if they find it at the scene—and they will because I was there—it won’t matter.”

“Okay.” She wasn’t sure what he meant for a moment. Because they already knew who he was. The police wouldn’t need his DNA to identify him. Then it struck her. Charles Finch wasn’t his real name. What was it? Did it matter?

“So, we stay here for a while, lay low,” he went on. “We’ll keep track of what’s happening. Figure it out day by day.”

She tried to imagine Stella’s house sitting empty, Pearl’s locker at school deserted. The store unopened. The books collecting dust. What happened to all of that when you just walked away? She thought of the boxes of books, waiting for shipment. Who would dismantle their life? She had no friends to wonder what had happened to her; the neighbors were distant and unfriendly. There was no family—no worried grandparents, or gaggle of loving cousins.

The truth was, no one would miss them. She would just disappear and be forgotten.

“They’ll forget about me,” she said. “I barely exist.”

He drew in a breath, put down his fork.

“You exist here,” he said. “With me.”

“Yes,” she said. There was an essential truth to that, but she didn’t feel real. She felt like a ghost about to be absorbed into the ether.

“What about the bookstore?”

Charlie pushed his glasses up. “It’s bankrupt. Stella was about to go under, and she knew it. She had a pile of debt, hadn’t paid the property taxes in two years. She was about to lose the building.”

“Logistically, what will happen?”

She thought about all the beautiful books, crisp and fresh, waiting hopefully for their readers. The story nook, the counter cluttered with pretty pens, funny buttons, bookmarks, the shelves she and Stella had built together, the big prints with quotes from famous works.

“I imagine the items inside—books, furniture, computers—will get sold off to pay the taxes, and the building will go to a seizure auction.”

“And what about her bank accounts?”

Charlie shrugged. “Honestly, Pearl, she was living on credit. There was nothing except the cash in that shoebox. A little under three grand. It’s yours; save it for a rainy day.”

If rainier days were coming, she didn’t want to know about it.

Outside, something hooted, low and mournful.

“So now, the good part,” he said, standing with his plate. “This is where we recreate ourselves.”

“How’s that?”

She cleared hers as well, moved over to stand beside him at the sink.

“My father, I told you, was a monster,” said Charlie. “But he was a master con artist—until it got him killed.”

“How?” she asked.

“That’s a story for another night. But he taught me everything I know about making the most out of people, situations, and life.”

“You thought she had more, didn’t you?”

He rinsed the plate, washed it with the sponge and soap. The scent of lilac was strong and soothing.

“I did think she had more. When I first met her, she presented like someone with money. Expensive bag and shoes, a store that looked successful, a nice house.”

“You were going to con her?”

“No,” he said quickly. He rinsed the dish and put it in the rack. “Maybe. I don’t know. But it was clear pretty fast that Stella was no mark. She intrigued me. Then, I broke a few of my own rules. I stayed too long. I got—distracted from the game.”

“Distracted by what?”

But she already knew the answer.

“Distracted by you.”

Pearl was fifteen but she looked older, she felt older. She knew more than people twice her age. Some of the men Stella brought home, they stared. If her mother noticed, the offender got kicked right out. It wasn’t like that with Charlie. There was something there, something between them. But it wasn’t weird. Not weird like that.