“I deduce one of three things happened. One, your dear friendwasinvolved in this blackmail operation in some capacity, then decided she wanted out of the ring. She tried to leave and our blackmailer killed her to protect her identity. Two, your beloved Marcus Ribald hired someone to pose as the buyer and he killed Ashley to close the loop. Three, Ashley was working for Marcus all along, and she was killed because she threatened to report the blackmail. That’s usually how these things end.” Morrie paused. “Not that I have any close personal experience with blackmail.”
“No, not at all.” The back of my neck prickled, a reminder that this guy had been the foremost criminal in the world, the spider at the center of a vast, nefarious web.
In a fictional world. Does it even count?
“This is going to take me a little longer to break,” Morrie muttered, his fingers flying over his phone screen. “These Cayman banks are always tight with security.”
I turned to Heathcliff. “Is this a ‘send out for pizza’ situation, or does he mean that he’s going to be working all night?”
“Make mine a meatsplosion,” Morrie didn’t even look up from his screen, his fingers a blur. “I bet I’ll have this hacked by the time dinner arrives.”
“You’re on,” I said. “Loser buys the next bottle of wine.”
“Deal. I hope you’ve been saving your pennies, gorgeous, because I’ve got expensive taste.”
Heathcliff picked up the phone on his desk. “Quoth,” he yelled. “You want your usual?”
“Croak!”
Heathcliff put in an other for three large pizzas, chips, and garlic bread, and endured a five minute conversation with the person on the other end reiterating that yes, his name really was Heathcliff, and no, he wasn’t some pimply-faced youth having a laugh.
“It’s odd to think of the Heathcliff I know – the one fromWuthering Heights– eating pizza,” I said after he hung up.
“We all of us agree one thing that’s improved from our fictional worlds is the cuisine,” Heathcliff said gruffly. “Nelly was a fair cook, but she cannot hold a candle to Tony’sPizzeria.I’m grateful if I never see another mutton pie for the rest of my days.”
I bit my tongue to ask of the cooking skills of Isabella Linton – the sister of Edgar Linton, who Cathy married for his wealth and affection – remembering in time that Heathcliff came to this world before he’d spitefully married her.
Heathcliff picked up his book again, and Morrie tapped away on his phone. Upstairs, all had gone quiet. I decided to pay Quoth a visit.
“Call me when the pizza arrives,” I called over my shoulder.
Grimalkin batted my ankles as I felt my way up the second flight of stairs. Quoth wasn’t in the living room, or the kitchen. I clambered up the narrow servant’s staircase, and poked my head into his bedroom.
At first, I assumed he wasn’t there. The room was dark, and no one had disturbed the neatly-made bed. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I noticed a figure in the window – a bare chest lit by a pale shaft of moonlight.
Quoth sat on a narrow wooden stool, his knees poking through Holly Santiago’s artfully-torn jeans. He held a paintbrush between his teeth and another in his hand. Both brushes dabbed at the surface of a canvas. It was angled away from me, so I couldn’t see the painting, but Quoth’s transfixed gaze was plenty arresting.
I moved across the room, trying to see what he was drawing with such single-minded focus. He didn’t even seem aware I was in the room. As I squinted at the square of canvas, my foot brushed an easel, sending a cascade of paintings crashing to the floor.
“Argh!” Quoth leapt out of his chair. Feathers burst through his cheeks and covered his arms.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just me.” I scrambled to pick up the paintings I’d disturbed. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s…” Quoth gripped the windowsill, sucking in his breath. His back muscles strained. Slowly, the feathers retracted into his skin. His shoulders relaxed.
“You didn’t shift?”
“Sometimes I can control it.” He picked up his brushes. “Did you want something?”
“Morrie’s trying to hack a Cayman Island bank account before the pizza arrives. I thought I’d see if you were okay.”
Quoth flicked on his bedside lamp, positioning the light so it shone onto the bed. He patted the spread. “Sit.”
I obeyed, grateful for the light that illuminated Quoth’s features in stark highlights. His hair fell over his shoulders and down his bare chest in luxurious waves, the light revealing hues of gunmetal, orange sunset, and cornflower blue. I lost myself in the depths of his brown eyes, searching for the storm that raged there earlier, but I could find no trace.
“I do not care about what Morrie said,” Quoth told me. The stillness in his eyes didn’t waver – he wasn’t lying.
Heshouldcare. I hated that he didn’t care.
