Charlie had told some lies of her own. Well, at least one.

She was disappointed.

And that pissed her off.

She stayed in the kitchen long after Stacia had left, cleaning counters that didn’t need to be cleaned and stewing. That the Harris twins were in some deep shit was obvious. That Jake was trying to manipulate her perception of their situation was also obvious. Not that he wasn’t good at it. She scowled and scrubbed harder. He was. But Charlie had seen Jake at death’s door, seen the look in his eyes when he was stripped bare. She could tell when he was lying.

It wasn’t as if he’d made any effort to hide the guilt. But she didn’t need his guilt. If he didn’t think saving his life entitled her to a little honesty, fine.

At least she knew where she stood. Same as always, in the dark, on shifting sands.

Stupid girl.

With a curse, Charlie left the kitchen, knowing there was only one way to get that voice out of her head. She turned as always to the canvas. Walking into the spare room was enough to ease the tension in her shoulders. She picked up the brush, her lips softening as she eyed the Mackinac piece. It was nearly finished. Closing her eyes, she could hear Emily’s voice in her ear, piping over the softer, lower tones of her grandparents, feel the sand under her toes.

Hold still, Charlie. I can’t get it right if you don’t hold still. Pen scratching over paper. Her own shy giggles.

The screams would come soon enough. Her grandfather having a heart attack, right there on the beach. Her grandmother following him into the grave just a week later. Two events that had sent Emily and Charlie back to their mother’s home.

Not that anyone sane would’ve called that a home. Charlie had been so little when her grandparents had sought custody that she hadn’t remembered what her mother’s house had been like.

But Em had. Charlie could still see her sister’s lip trembling when the social worker had told them the news.

You’re sending us back there? To Jolene?

She is your mama.

Charlie couldn’t remember the woman’s face now, only that laugh, tinkling and fake, trying to act as though she were giving them exciting news. Though the reports must have been right in front of her. The reports Charlie herself had sought once she’d come of age.

Charlie closed her eyes even tighter until colors flowed and burst behind them.

Everyone she had ever trusted had let her down. Death, betrayal, neglect. People just weren’t safe. If you put your faith in them, you’d lose.

Because everyone left. Or lied. Or both.

Every single time.

Stupid girl.

She opened her eyes and saw the waves and the light, took a steadying breath. But there was beauty in the world, true, lasting beauty. Her paintings were a way to remind herself of that.

She had accepted long ago that kind of beauty existed in spite of people, not because of them. Pressing her lips together, Charlie lifted her brush to the canvas, each stroke soothing away the pain she wouldn’t admit to.

The pain that yet another person had come into her life and proven that no one was trustworthy.

No one.

---

Charlie woke him before she left for work in the morning, just like she had the day before and the day before that. But the difference was palpable. Jake had realized pretty quickly that not only was Charlie a classic introvert, she was almost a recluse. She hadn’t been kidding that first night. Nobody came over, nobody called. But despite that, she’d been warming up to him and Stacia, even to Martin. Showing flashes of a wicked, sly humor that was an intriguing contrast to her innate gentleness.

That was gone now. In its place was something invisible, but thin and hard and cold. That look was back in her eyes. That blank, empty look that he knew she used to protect the real Charlie. The shutters were drawn tight, keeping him out.

She put her arm around him like she always did, helped him to his feet as carefully as ever, but it wasn’t the same. She’d retreated and he didn’t know how to get her back. Or if he should even try. Maybe this was for the best.

The smell of coffee greeted him as they entered the kitchen. He hated coffee, always had. It wasn’t an Australian thing—plenty of his mates loved the nasty brew—it was just a Jake thing. He wanted to tease her about it, the way he’d taken to doing, but the words dried up in his throat as she left him in his customary seat at the table without a backward glance.

“Scrambled or fried?” she asked, pulling the carton of eggs from the icebox.

“Charlie. About last night—”

“I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.” The butter joined the eggs on the counter.

“But I do mind.” He shoved a hand through his hair, wishing she’d at least look at him. But then she did, a quick glance over her shoulder, and that empty blue gaze made him sick. No, he couldn’t leave things like this. “I owe you an explanation, a real one. I get that. But there are things here that are—”

“You don’t owe me anything,” she said, her shoulders stiff as she turned back to the stove. “Scrambled or fried?”

“Fuck this!” He slammed his hand down on the table, making Charlie jump. He cursed and closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath before gentling his tone. “I’m sorry. I just . . . Charlie, don’t be like this with me.”

There was a long beat of silence. “You don’t get to lie to my face and ask that.” Her voice was soft, but steel hummed along the edges.

She was right. What the fuck did he expect? You’re only protecting yourself, he thought, looking at that ramrod straight spine as his hands tightened into fists on the tabletop.

Yes, he should accept her distance and move on. But he couldn’t fucking do it.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “We both know I wasn’t completely honest with you last night. But I will be now.”

She looked over her shoulder at him, her lips parting in surprise, but her eyes were still wary.

He sighed. “Most of what I told you is true. About what Stace and I do. Ninety percent of the time, that is exactly what our business entails.”

“But the other ten percent?”

“Sometimes we do things that aren’t quite . . . legal. But there is a reason for that, a good one. We’re looking for someone.” He gritted his teeth. “And being honest is not going to extend to giving you his name, so don’t ask.”

“Okay.” She nodded slowly, then crossed the room to sit down at the table. “Why are you looking for him?”

“He killed our mother.”

Those big blue eyes widened. She didn’t say a word, but both her hands slid across the table to cover his and squeeze. His throat went tight. Charlie never touched anyone except out of necessity. She didn’t seek physical contact the way most people did. He’d noticed that right off, because he was the exact opposite.

“I should have let it go,” she whispered.

“No.” He shook his head, cleared his throat. “It’s better that you know. There is no reason for them to come back here once we leave.” Though he had every intention of asking Lucjan to keep an eye out, just in case. “But if you ever see either of those men again, you need to call that number Martin gave you at once. Even if you’re not sure, just fucking call. You understand me?”

She nodded again, her eyes searching his. He could see the questions there. When, where, how, why? He braced himself for her to press for the details of his mother’s murder. But Charlie surprised him. She asked something else entirely.

“What was this man after? In the museum?”

He relaxed a little. “Did you know about the exhibit starting next week?”

She frowned. “Something about influences on American art?”

“Yes. Well, it includes some rather rare lithographs by Edvard Munch.”

“Wow. Do these art thieves all take the same art appreciation classes?”

“Munch is good.” He found himself smiling at words that so closely resembled his own thoughts. “I like most of his stuff. Don’t you?”

She hesitated. “He’s okay. Little crazy and sad.”

“A lot of art is crazy and sad.”

“Yeah, I know, but . . .” She shrugged. “I like the happy stuff better. Those are the moments I want to hold on to. There’s more than enough crazy and sad to go around, don’t you think?”

He did. Any art that elicited strong emotion was damn good art in his opinion. But the happy stuff was his favorite, too.

“I guess you probably know more about all that than me.” She smiled, a smile that hid something darker he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Regret, maybe? “I only minored in art, at a community college at that.”

“That’s more than I did, darl. Trust me, the art expert shtick is all Stace.” Which wasn’t strictly true. He had become well versed in art over the years, but there was no denying Stace was light-years ahead of him. While he’d been getting his education on the streets of Sydney, his profits had funded Stace’s schooling at UNSW.

They had known which paths to take, had painstakingly planned them for years. Jake was the street, Stace was the polish. The reappearance of their father when they were ten had only helped that along. He’d opened doors for Jake, taught him his own skills, which were considerable, even though in Jake’s opinion his dad had been a clumsy thief.

But there was no denying the old man had style. Though after Mom’s death, Dad became a ghost of his former self. Jake and Stacia hadn’t even recognized him when he’d shown up in the middle of the night and snatched them from their foster home. It was like being abducted by a stranger. Jake had only recognized him when he spoke, miles down the road, when he’d finally decided to remove their gags. John Harris had been thought dead, and he’d wanted it to stay that way.

Only a handful of years later, he’d gotten dead for real.

And even though Jake knew it was stupid, that his old man had been worthless, it still hurt. Under Charlie’s hands, Jake’s fingers curled into a fist.

“Jake?”

He took a breath and forced himself to relax before turning his palm up and curling his fingers around hers instead. “Sorry. Guess I was off with the fairies.”

Her fingers trembled in his before she tried to tug her hands away. Jake pretended not to notice.

“I need to get ready for work,” she said finally.

“Do you?” he teased. “I’ve lost track of the days. Surely it’s the weekend by now.”

“I can assure you it’s not.”

Finally, reluctantly, he let her go. Their eyes met and held. That awful blankness was gone from hers, but he found he still needed to hear it.

“Are we good, Charlie?”

She hesitated in the entryway, then flashed a small smile at him over her shoulder. “As good as it gets.”

He frowned, not sure that was a satisfactory answer, but Charlie had already vanished down the hall.