The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

Either intentionally or because he isn’t sure what he wants to say, Nick makes me wait until he’s drained two glasses of water. When he starts peeling a banana, I lunge for him. He starts laughing, the little fucker, and dances away. “I wondered how long you’d wait.”

“Fuck you.” I laugh. Nick and I can never stay mad at each other for long.

“Uh-oh, you owe me five or I tell Mom.” Mom hates hearing us cuss and makes us put five dollars in a jar that we then donate to the Widows and Orphans Charity. Dad fills it up about once a month.

“Yeah? And how are you going to explain all the porn Tumblrs you’ve been looking up on your computer? I screenshotted your history, FYI.” I haven’t, but Nick doesn’t know that. His quick temper flares again, and I think he might try to force feed me the banana. “Just kidding.” I back away, holding up my hands in surrender.

Nick’s face grows serious. “You know they are thinking of shipping Charlotte to Switzerland, right?”

That stops me in my tracks. I am glad I am near a weight bench because the thought of Charlotte being moved out of the country leaves me more winded than my hour-long workout. “When did you hear that?”

“Charlotte told me yesterday.”

“And you’re just telling me now?” I yell at Nick.

“Volume, please.” Nick jiggles his ear.

“Sorry,” I reply curtly, but I’m not sorry at all. This is vital information. “Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?” What are her parents thinking? Charlotte needs to be with me—I mean, us. She needs to be here, where her family and friends are, not in some strange country with people who don’t know her.

“Where’d you go the night Charlotte had her tumor out?” Nick asks in an abrupt change of subject.

Caught off guard, I stammer, “Uh, here. The gym.”

“Really? Cuz when we got the call that Charlotte was out of surgery, I came down here to the gym and then down to the common one on the sixth floor. You weren’t in either one.” Nick doesn’t look at me, but I know what I’d see in his eyes.

Disappointment.

Suddenly I feel angry at Dad for ratting me out. Surging to my feet, I start for the door. Nick stops me. “I saw Madeline yesterday in the lobby. She asked about you. Where you’ve been. How come she hasn’t seen you. I told her you were at the hospital with Charlotte. She asked me if that was where you’d taken off to in such a rush the other night.”

“Goddammit.” I lean my head against the glass door of the gym. “What’d you say to her?”

“I told her it wasn’t any of her fucking business where you went and what you did.”

We’re going to fund some kid’s entire college education at the rate we’re spitting out profanities.

“Did you really?” Dad has always taught us to be respectful to women, and I just can’t see Nick saying that. Even to Madeline.

Nick looks down at his feet and shakes his head. “No, but I wanted to. I just said that Charlotte was our number one priority now.”

“Did you say anything to Charlotte?” That’s the most important question. I hold my breath as he answers.

“No.”

The sheer relief at his response makes me weak. “Thanks.”

It’s inadequate but heartfelt. I push away from the door and gesture for Nick to follow me to the condo. He doesn’t get up, and worry is all over his face.

“I think AnnMarie knows, though, because after Charlotte told me I hung around outside the room when Mom came. They were talking about this new clinic in Switzerland, and AnnMarie said it’d be good to get Charlotte away from us for a while.”

“What’d Mom say?”

“I couldn’t hear. They moved away from the door.”

“Fuck,” I curse, and this time Nick doesn’t threaten to tell Mom. “So you think Aunt AnnMarie knows about Madeline and wants to move Charlotte away because of that?”

Nick spreads his hands. “Why else?”

I can think of a thousand reasons but instead of enumerating them, I run upstairs to Dad’s library and burst in. He’s on the phone and unhappy at the unannounced interruption. He gestures for me to sit down but then notices I’m in my workout clothes. Muting the phone, he barks at me, “Don’t sit on my leather chairs until you’ve showered.”

I stand because I’m not leaving to shower or eat or shit or anything until I find out what’s going on.

Dad doesn’t hurry through the phone call. Instead, he listens as the other person seems to talk without breaks, all the while eying me speculatively. I take the time, as he intends, to gather myself until I’m no longer ready burst out with some inappropriate profanity-laced diatribe. I firm my lips and give him a nod that I’m ready. He nods back and quickly wraps up the call.