Chapter 5 The Devil you Don't

The club was closed, but the ghosts were still lingering.

Barstools flipped, ashtrays emptied, floor sticky from promises that hadn't dried yet. Charlie stood alone on stage, bent over his sax, running scales low and slow like a man talking to himself in a language no one else was invited to understand.

I waited until he finished the phrase. Then I stepped into the spotlight.

"You going to tell me," I said, "or do I have to follow you again?"

He didn't flinch. Just lowered the horn and looked at me with that unreadable stillness he wore better than a suit.

"You walk loud for someone who wants to be invisible," he said.

"You pass envelopes behind pawnshops like a man who wants to get caught."

He wiped the mouthpiece with a cloth and placed the sax gently in its case. No rush. No guilt. But no denial, either.

"Who was he?" I asked.

Charlie clicked the latches closed. "Doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

"That's new," he said. "You caring."

"I care when my name gets dropped like a dead rat in the middle of a deal."

He looked at me finally. Really looked. "Then you're in the wrong city, sweetheart."

I stepped closer. The stage creaked beneath my heels.

"What's in the envelope, Charlie?"

"Nothing you need to see."

"You're wrong," I said. "I need to see everything now."

He stared at me for a long time. Not angry. Not cold. Just... tired. Like a man who'd been holding a secret between his teeth too long.

Then I said it.

"Celeste."

The word snapped something behind his eyes. Just a flicker. A beat of recognition he didn't mean to give.

He looked away.

"She's not your problem," he said.

"Then why does everyone look like they've seen a ghost when her name comes up?"

Charlie shut the case and stood.

"Because maybe she is."

And then he walked off stage and left me standing in the half-light with nothing but questions and the faint smell of brass and regret.

Rust always chose the ugliest diners. The kind that smelled like burnt toast and day-old bacon grease. The kind that had bad coffee and worse lighting and still managed to feel too exposed.

I slid into the booth across from him without saying a word. He already had two cups on the table, both steaming. He pushed one toward me. I didn't touch it.

"You're up early," he said.

"Someone moved a photo off my counter a few nights ago. Hard to sleep after that."

He didn't ask which photo. Didn't need to.

He stirred his coffee like it needed convincing.

"I hear Caruso's been sniffing," he said finally. "Not just at you. At files."

"What kind of files?"

"The kind that should be ashes by now."

I leaned back and crossed my arms. "You're talking about me."

Rust's face didn't move. But his fingers tightened around the spoon.

"I buried your past for a reason, Vivi. I don't like shovelling."

"Then maybe stop handing out the map."

He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You think Frank's interested in you because he likes torch singers and lipstick?"

"I think he's interested in whatever makes you nervous."

Rust dropped the spoon, letting it clatter against the saucer.

"He's getting too close to things that aren't his. Names. Ledgers. Evidence that was meant to disappear. People who used to matter."

"Like Celeste?"

That stopped him. Just a beat. His jaw moved once, like he'd swallowed the wrong word.

"I don't know where you heard that name," he said, "but you'd do well to forget it."

"I've never been good at forgetting," I said.

He leaned forward, voice lower.

"Then start learning. Because if Frank finds what he's looking for, he won't be the one who burns for it. You will."

He tossed a bill on the table and stood.

And just like that, the man who owned my worst secret walked out into daylight, leaving the stink of fear and old coffee behind.

The crowd that night had the same glazed sheen as always, faces softened by gin and stage lights, laughter that rose a little too fast, eyes that didn't linger long enough to feel real.

Except one.

The table was tucked in the far back corner, half swallowed by shadow. I couldn't see the face, not clearly. Just the shape of a hat, the glint of a cigarette, the unwavering line of a body that didn't fidget, didn't flirt, and didn't pretend.

They watched me like they were reading something already written.

Frank wasn't there.

Rust wouldn't sit that still.

And Charlie never sat at all.

I sang through it. Hit the notes clean. Let the smoke in my throat twist into something sweet. But that gaze crawled over me like a cold hand at the base of the spine.

When the set ended, I didn't wait for applause. I bowed, turned, and walked off stage like I had somewhere to be.

Because I did.

I peeked from behind the curtain a few minutes later.

The table was empty.

But the back door by the kitchen was swinging slowly shut.

I didn't think. Just moved.

Out through the side hallway, past the waitresses counting tips, past the cook smoking by the freezer. I pushed the door open and stepped into the alley.

The night slapped me with cool air and the faint scent of rot and bleach. A delivery truck idled nearby, engine humming. Trash bins stood like silent guards.

And then I saw her.

A figure in a trench coat, half-turned, just beyond the lamplight.

Not tall. Not short. Face hidden under the brim of her hat.

She paused.

Didn't run.

Didn't speak.

Just waited.

I stepped forward, slow and deliberate, heels clicking like a countdown against the wet concrete.

The woman stood just beyond the edge of the light, half her face dipped in shadow. Her coat was belted tight. Gloves. Low heels. Not glamorous. Not cheap. Something in between, like someone who didn't want to be remembered.

"You've been watching me," I said.

She didn't flinch.

"You left the envelope," I added. "Took the photo."

Still no reply.

I stopped a few feet away, close enough to smell her perfume something light, expensive, citrus with something bitter underneath. Not a club scent. A deliberate one.

"What do you want?" I asked.

She tilted her head, just slightly. "You think you're the only one being followed?"

Her voice was quiet, well-trained, like a radio just on the edge of signal. Clipped vowels. East coast, maybe. But not young.

I stepped closer. "Then tell me what this is. What you're watching. What he's looking for."

She looked past me, toward the street, then back.

"You're asking the wrong questions."

I swallowed. "Then what are the right ones?"

But she was already stepping backward.

"Vivian Dumas doesn't ask," she said, her voice almost a whisper now. "She listens."

And with that, she turned and disappeared into the alley mist – one blink, and she was gone.

I didn't follow.

For once, I knew I wasn't supposed to.

I didn't turn the lights on when I got home.

The dark felt honest.

I dropped my coat on the chair, poured a drink, and sat cross-legged on the floor with a legal pad and a pen that had just enough ink to bleed out a truth or two.

I wrote down everything I knew.

Rust. Frank. Charlie. Loretta. The envelope. The photo. The fire escape. The woman in the alley.

I circled names. Drew lines. Arrows. Dead ends.

And one name that kept looping back like a scar you can't stop touching.

Celeste.

She was the smoke behind the curtain. The woman Loretta mentioned with regret. The name Charlie didn't want to hear. The thing Frank wasn't talking about but carried like a ghost inside his spine.

And now there was another name.

The woman in the alley hadn't said it aloud. Not directly.

But when she vanished, she'd dropped something. A single playing card. Black bishop, hand-sketched in ink. No suit. No number. Just a symbol.

Bishop.

Not a man. Not yet. But a presence.

Someone pulling strings.

I pinned the card to my wall next to the other notes. Watched it flutter slightly in the breeze from the window I hadn't opened.

Then I sat.

And waited.

Because if I were asking the wrong questions, someone would come soon to correct me.

And this time, I'd be listening.