To Be Obscure

| Ch. 14

1838

The following morning, I had showered away the night's murder and followed Charles to the courthouse. The man, still dressed in his long johns, demanded his wife's release. He knew who'd taken her, and why—the removal had begun, and it didn't matter how it was conducted. Charles pushed at the officers, at his colleagues. He said, "You cannot forcibly remove my wife from my own home!"

His outburst only led to his arrest.

They would've taken Charlotte, too, but Charles pleaded with me to keep her safe. Not to let her out of my sight.

I had pulled her by the waist, kicking and screaming, back to their house. I locked her up in her room and pressed my forehead against the door as she cried, "Lamont, please!"

I didn't. I couldn't.

The rest of that week was a blur. The first two days were by far the worst. Charlotte screamed, kicked, and cried. When I'd open the door to feed her, she refused to eat. Instead, she tried to run past me and down the stairs; I'd tossed her back on her bed, shut the door, and listened to her scream all over again.

By the fifth day, she'd stopped. I listened out for her cries from the sitting room, helping myself to Charles' rum. The house was quiet. So still, I worried for a second if she'd fallen ill. I rushed upstairs, and opened her door, only to find her seated on the bed. She didn't blink, she didn't look at me. She simply sat, statuesque.

"Charlotte May," I knelt in front of her, holding her hands, "are you all right?"

"No," she breathed as she stared at the wall behind me.

I chewed on my lip and sighed. "Are you hungry? I can run you a bath and bring you food."

"I want my mother and my father," she said, her gaze the same.

I touched her cheek. "You know I cannot take you to them."

"You can," she breathed and sniffed as tears rimmed her eyes. "You can. You're an angel, aren't you?"

I froze. A what? "I don't think I understand you, my love."

"Do not play dumb with me," she finally looked at me, "I saw you kill that man."

"Murder does not make me an angel, mon chéri." I linked our fingers. "I'll run you a bath."

"But you admit it, you killed that man!"

I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. The sound of the night wind blew in through her window. In the distance, I heard a howl. "Charlotte."

"You did it for Mama, you did it to save us. I saw you. You moved so fast through the grass, and lifted him like a rag doll, and—"

She raised her hands to demonstrate the murder I committed, but I grabbed her wrists. I looked at her unmade bed, the melting candle beside it. On the wall above her window was a crucifix. "Charlotte May," I said through gritted teeth, "I killed a man, there was nothing holy about it."

"Your eyes," she whispered, "they were bright like a candle. You could see the evil fiends in the darkness."

I sucked on my teeth and moved away from her. I wasn't an angel. A demon, yes, but no hand of God. I looked down at my hands, at the fingers that have killed both men and women alike. They trembled at the thought.

"You're a good man, Lamont, a very good man. I love you, no matter what you are."

Her voice hit my ears like cold silk, riddled with need and despair. It hurt my heart to see her in this state. I looked at her, at her red lips and puffy face. Her hair fell around her face, loose and undone. Her hands twiddled with the front of her dress, just as she'd always done when she was nervous.