Her mind went over all the things that could go wrong, and she thought of the receipts in Odette’s office, one of them revealing the name of the dead guy who wanted to fence those pages from the Liber Noctem. If he was the one holding the rest of the book, with Adam in charge of moving it, she was screwed. It wouldn’t be at the hotel. But if she knew the dead guy’s name, she could hit his place next.
Maybe she hadn’t changed much after all.
If someone had put a marshmallow in front of her as a child, she would have eaten it straightaway, because adults couldn’t be trusted to keep their promises.
At ten, Charlie got a half-hour dinner break. It was her chance to pee and scarf something down before she was back on until one, with just one more fifteen-minute break between. Usually, she went a few blocks over to Daikaiju for ramen, but tonight she walked to the convenience store on the corner and got microwavable mac ’n’ cheese, a container of sad-looking grapes, and a coconut water.
She drank the coconut water on the way back, tossing the container in the garbage before she passed through the large black double doors of Rapture. She headed straight to the break room. Although technically part of the backstage, it had a microwave and a place to sit.
Since the performers were on stage, there was no one to object to her being there. She made her way to a satiny pink sofa that looked only slightly moth-eaten. Makeup cluttered a long mirrored counter. Shimmery stage outfits hung on a garment rack that bowed in the middle as though about to collapse beneath their weight. A hook on the wall held a few abandoned garments, including a deep red satin pantsuit that Charlie coveted, waiting for their owners to come and retrieve them. A small side table next to the sofa held a dirty cream landline phone.
The main area of Rapture, including the bar and the stage, wasn’t all that large. You could get perhaps a hundred people in, packed tightly together—although if you counted Balthazar’s basement shadow parlor, you could probably cram in thirty more. Only one hall ran into the back, leading to the dressing room where Charlie’s mac ’n’ cheese spun on the glass microwave plate. Directly across from it was the large metal door that led to Odette’s office.
Just one quick peek at the receipt, she told herself. His name wasn’t a secret. Charlie had run his card through the machine. She’d given him the paper to sign and the pen to sign with. If she’d been paying more attention, she’d already know.
Crossing the hall, Charlie knocked. When no one answered, she let herself inside.
Wallpaper with a pattern of gleaming golden knives covered the room. A powder-coated neon purple steel desk rested in the center, a brass lamp glowing atop it. An art deco–style bookshelf ran along the back wall, piled with stacks of papers. Beside it was a second steel door. This one was ajar, revealing Odette’s dungeon.
From where Charlie was standing, it appeared to be small and well organized, with a dog cage in one corner and a Saint Andrew’s cross dominating the rest of the space.
Charlie liked Odette. She liked working at Rapture. Odette let her order in dry ice, infuse vodka with Meyer lemons or ginger or peppercorns in big glass vats they kept in a cool spot beneath the stage. Charlie got paid and got decent tips, and if someone gave her a hard time, they got removed.
It was stupid to risk a good job for something that couldn’t really matter. Even if she found the book, so what? So she’d take something away from Salt—but it would be nothing like what he took from her.
But even as she thought that, her fingers were digging through the receipts on Odette’s desk. Charlie Hall, failing the marshmallow test. No impulse control. Curious as a cat on crack.
And there it was, Four Roses, $4.25. He’d added a fifty-cent tip, which sucked, but whatever, speak no ill of the dead. Paul Ecco. Charlie stuffed the receipts back into the neon purple envelope and zipped it up, repeating his name in her head. She grabbed a pen and was about to retreat back to the break room to write it on her hand when Odette came in. She startled to see Charlie.
Fuck, Charlie thought. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Charlotte?” Odette asked, stern as a schoolmistress. This must be the exact tone of voice she used before she slapped the shit out of someone and then charged them for it.
“Sorry,” Charlie said, holding up what was in her hand. “I was looking for a pen.”
“These are my pens, my dear.” Odette looked no less irritated but seemed to believe Charlie’s crime was exactly what she’d said it was.
“Sorry,” Charlie mumbled again.