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Charles blinked at the letter. He gripped his spectacles and dropped them on the edge of his nose. Slowly, he unfolded it and began to read. He studied the words for what seemed like ten minutes. Charlotte remained standing. The adrenaline of passing the letter on to him had rattled her.
Charles Baxter’s eyes turned back upward to connect with hers.
“Why on earth do you have this?” he asked.
Charlotte hadn’t considered this question. Panicked, she whispered, “I don’t know why I took it.”
“Where did you find it?”
“I was at Brooks’ mansion. I went for a walk and stumbled into Brooks’ room. This fell out of a stack of books.” Charlotte swallowed the lump in her throat, then added, “Look at the date. It’s the same day that he was murdered.”
“I see that,” Charles returned, with an air of disdain. It was clear he didn’t appreciate some twenty-something blonde explaining the details of his job to him.
Charlotte’s heart fluttered. “Do you think there’s a chance that the woman who wrote it has something to do with his death?”
“Of course there is,” Charles Baxter returned. He cleared his throat, then added, “I don’t suppose you know who he might have been courting at the time?”
“No. And I asked his mother and father if he’d courted anyone recently. They said no,” Charlotte said.
Charles Baxter folded up the letter once more and slipped it within his various files. Slowly, he stood, then stretched out his hand over the desk for Charlotte to shake. She did, simmering in what she’d always perceived as the sort of power a man felt all the time.
“Thank you for your assistance, Charlotte. I will make more notes to myself here and then see myself out. That is if your mother allows it.”
Charlotte turned back towards the door. As her hand gripped the handle, she had yet another thought regarding Jeffrey—this strange man she’d never seen before who’d just-so-happened to arrive in town around the time of Brooks’ murder.
Certainly, it was possible that he’d had something to do with it.
And the fact that he seemed to continually lurk around, keeping tabs on her gave her pause, as well. Perhaps he assumed that she was on the verge of labelling him as the murderer. Perhaps, once he caught wind of her thought, he would find a way to end her life, as well.
How dreadful it would be: to feel the beginnings of lust for the very man who wanted to murder you, she thought.
“Is there something else?” Charles Baxter asked.
Tell him about the mystic. Tell him about Jeffrey. Give him everything you have so that your guilt doesn’t overwhelm you and keep you up at night. There is such freedom in truth.
“Not that I can think of,” Charlotte affirmed, turning her head to flash a final smile his way. “I suppose I should come up with something to tell my mother about why you can’t stay for dinner?”
“I’m on the hunt for justice,” Charles told her. “I don’t have time for it.”
“No time to eat? I don’t suppose she’ll allow this excuse,” Charlotte said. She was frightened at her ability to laugh, despite the lies she’d flung into the world.
“She’d be mortified at what I ordinarily eat in a day, I suppose,” Charles Baxter said. “I’ve never been particularly interested in food as an art form. Something to be enjoyed. In my mind, it’s simply something you’re meant to ingest to keep yourself alive.”
Charlotte snickered. “I would love to describe this to my mother, as well. I think she very well could faint.”
“Women are always fainting. Especially in my career. I speak for a moment about a murderer, about a death—and suddenly, women fall on their backs like dead birds and must be revived. It’s exhausting.”
“I imagine,” Charlotte said. She kept eye contact with him for another moment more, then turned the doorknob. “Let me know what else I can do for you, Investigator. I look forward to you hunting down this horrendous creature. My cousin deserves justice.”
“I believe this in my bones as well,” Charles Baxter said. “Nobody deserves to die in the middle of the street like that. No matter what.”
