She doesn’t particularly appreciate the cheap gotcha in the way he asks the question, though she reckons it’s fair. “Yes! You are supposed to trust me—needto trust me—because I am telling you the truth. And if you didn’t hear me earlier, yourvery life is at stake, so it’s kind of super important that you take this seriously, regardless of your completely unfounded negative personal feelings about me.”
Gretchen never particularly enjoyed the story of the boy who cried wolf. Probably because when she read it in their fables unit at whatever elementary school she was in at the time, the teacher took away her recess privileges after she raised her hand and pointed out that none of this would have happened had the boy not tried to pull off the same con on the same group of people over and over (seriously, that’s Grifting 101). But she’s starting to think that maybe she understands the moral of the story after all—albeit twentysomething years later.
“How can I prove it to you?” she asks. “Would it help if I told you things that only someone who’s been creeping around here for a hundred years would know? Everett, hit me with some little-known facts about our friend Charlie here.”
Everett’s face lights, overjoyed at the opportunity to speak. He jumps down from the counter and taps at his chin. “He still sleeps with a teddy bear.”
“You sleep with a teddy bear,” she tells Charlie.
Charlie’s eyes widen, but his hands come to his hips. “I can’t believe you went into my bedroom. I knew I shouldn’t have left you up there alone.”
“No, Everett told me. Just now. And its name is...”
“Teddy,” Everett supplies.
“Teddy,” she repeats.
Charlie pauses before saying, “And how could you possibly guess that?”
“Hey. Not my fault you chose something so unimaginative. What else do you have for me, Ev? Preferably something that he can’t write off as a lucky guess.”
Everett makes a series ofhmmnoises as he thinks. “Charlie’s left-handed.”
She shakes her head. “Too obvious.” In fact, Gretchen already noted that when he reached for the book earlier.
“But he always uses his right when he’s doing the ol’ one-two.”
“What does that—”
“You know,” Everett says, curling his fingers and pumping his fist a few times near his hips.
“Jesus, Everett. Not that sort of information,” she says as heat washes over her face.
“You said a little-known fact! It doesn’t get more little-known than that.”
It is... too easy for her to imagine that for some reason. Now she can’tnotimagine it, in fact. She spent enough time studying Charlie’s hands and forearms a minute ago that it’s not that much of a challenge to fill in the blanks and paint a very vivid mental picture of what he might look like bringing himself right to the edge of— “Ah, give me something else. Something appropriate. Quick.”
“Um... he’s afraid of clowns?”
“Who isn’t? I need something more unique here.”
Everett paces frantically. He looks like he’d be sweating if that was a thing his spectral form could do. “I can’t work under this kind of pressure!”
“What about his family? Did anyone have any unusual habits?” she prompts, thinking of the details that she’s whipped out during séances to convince clients that their loved one is really speaking through her. “A favorite food?”
“Oh, oh! Lemon meringue pie,” Everett says, then wipes his brow in relief now that the pressure is off. “Ellen—Charlie’s grandmother—loved lemon meringue pie.”
“Lemon meringue pie,” she says, lightly smacking the table in victory. “That was your grandmother’s favorite.”
For a fraction of a second, Charlie’s face takes on a pained expression, like he’s holding back some emotion.Did that do it?He shakes his head as if answering her mental question. “Deborah told you that, I take it?” His voice is quiet, more hesitant.
“No, Everett did. Just now.” She tries to keep the frustration from her voice, but it doesn’t work. Usually, Gretchen finds it easy to remain in control of her emotions. Why is this man so... so...? “What do I have to do to get you to believe me? I’m trying to save you from a real shitty fate here, pal, but all you’ve done since I arrived is malign my character—”
“Character!” He scoffs. “What character?” Charlie takes a few steps toward Gretchen and throws his hand out, gesturing to her with a swift, dismissive movement. The way someone might to a pile of dirty laundry that should’ve been picked up days ago. Something inside her stomach shrivels at the look of disgust on his face; she’s seen that expression before, years ago, back in Chicago. It doesn’t bode well. “What is there to you except smoke and mirrors?” Charlie continues. “Because I highly doubt there’s a genuine bone in your body, much less any concern for the people whose money you steal.”
“I don’t steal anything from anyone,” she reiterates, moving closer and jabbing a finger into his chest. Gretchen Acorn is many things, but a thief is not one of them. If anything, shegivesmuch more than she takes. It’s immensely important to her that Charlie understands that. After all, it’s the principle for which she gave up everything and started her life over, the reason she’s endured being alone for so long. And if she doesn’t have that going forher, well, what does she have? “I help all of my clients, and I care deeply for their well-being.” And she does... at least as it relates to hers.
Based on his glower, he isn’t convinced. “If you cared for Deborah, you’d stop taking advantage of her.”
