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I stare down at my hands. I don’t want her to see exactly how much I care for Charlie.I’ll even tell you things that will condemn him, because that’s what he ordered me to do.“You said you fearedhewould hurt me. So I don’t think you’ll believe anything I say, because I know he’d never hurt me.”
“Are you sure about that?” Rusk’s attempt at a slow, casual, friendly tone makes me shudder. “Because we’ve got—”
“Wait,” Matheson breaks in, settling against the seat. “This isn’t something to discuss in a car in the dark.”
29
Walking into Charlie’s house with two FBI agents is fucking surreal. His house already feels colder, less substantial, as though it knows the Master is gone.
After working all day, worrying about everything, and now Sheba’s close call, all I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep like the dead. I don’t think I’ll lie awake staring at the ceiling tonight.
Though of course that depends on what they’re going to tell me about how Charlie is such a threat to me.
I want a warm drink, but nothing too stout that might worsen my insomnia, so I grab the kettle. I loathe asking them if they want anything, but politeness and hospitality are etched into my being. “I’m making some herbal tea. Would you like any?”
“Thank you, yes,” Matheson replies.
I glance at Rusk and he shakes his head. As I fill the kettle at the sink, I watch him look around the house. He barely glances at the plywood covering the hole in the wall. He’s too busy scanning the walls and tables, hovering at the head of the hallway. He might suspect that Charlie is hiding somewhere in the house. Or maybe he just wants to figure out the layout.
Or maybe he’s trying to find a picture of Charlie. Maybe they don’t have any idea who he is.
“Would you mind if we looked around quickly?” Matheson asks. “We need to make sure no one’s hiding, whether MacNiall or the intruder.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. I can’t remember where I left that basket of meager evidence I gathered up that contains the pictures from Doctors Without Borders. Probably his office. But I’m not sure.
While the water heats, I follow them down the hallway. They don’t draw their guns, but they’re careful, peering around doors first one at a time, making sure one of them has a free line of attack if needed. They look in closets. The bathroom. Matheson is as observant as her partner, but they don’t touch anything. Thankfully I made the bed this morning and didn’t leave underwear lying around.
Just in time, the kettle starts whistling as I lead them back to the kitchen. I pour two teacups and turn around to bring them to the table, but draw up short.
Rusk stands over the table, his finger tracing the holes in the top where Charlie pinned me with his knives.
“Someone had some trouble cutting up their steak.” He laughs, his eyes locked on me. “Or maybe someone has a temper.”
“Or maybe none of the above,” I reply as calmly as possible. “There’s only two chairs, unless you want to grab one from the office.”
“I’ll stand. So what caused these knife marks in the top of your dining room table?”
I sit down in the chair Charlie usually used, and Matheson takes the other. Rusk can’t stand behind me that way. In hindsight, I realize that’s probably why Charlie always sat here. “It’s private. I don’t think you need to know.”
Matheson lays a manila folder in front of her. “Maybe after you see some of the evidence, you’ll change your mind.”
I sip my tea, trying not to shake. The warm drink helps settle my anxiety. “I’m listening.”
“The man you know as Charles MacNiall isn’t who he says he is. He can’t be. Because Charles MacNiall is dead.”
I hunch my shoulders slightly, huddled over my steaming cup. “I don’t understand. He’s not dead.”
“The man you know isn’t dead, but he isn’t Charles MacNiall, either.” Matheson slides an official paper over to me. I scan it quickly, catchingdeath certificate, Charles MacNiall. “It was completely accidental that we stumbled across MacNiall. The Christian County Sheriff’s Office notified us of a potential kidnapping but frankly it was pretty low on our priority list. But the file got flagged because of Blake Enterprises. We’ve long suspected them of mercenary activities, including murder for hire. That got us assigned to dig into the case, and naturally, we started looking into MacNiall.”
“And you.” Rusk looks in my general direction, but I’m pretty sure he’s still absorbed by the knife marks in the table.
“On paper, he’s perfectly clean,” Matheson continues. “Too clean, actually. The more we looked, the less we could find. He’s quite an enigma.” She passes over a scan of a newspaper article from Montana. “The real Charles MacNiall died seven years ago in a car accident.”
“Now he’s gone again,” Rusk says. “Poof.”
“So who is he?” Matheson asks. “His real identity?”
“I don’t know.” My voice is hoarse, so I sip my tea. I look up into her eyes, so she can see I’m not trying to lie. “He’s Charlie to me. That’s all I know.”
