Chapter 6 The Woman in Red

The morning hit my apartment like a slap. Bright light through dusty blinds, a headache pressed just behind my eyes, and too many unanswered questions taped to the wall like warnings.

I dressed in navy slacks and a blouse that said "business" more than "burlesque", pulled my hair into something that looked respectable, and grabbed the playing card. The bishop. I slipped it into my purse like a loaded charm.

The man I was visiting owed me two favours and a lie he never paid back. His name was Earl Sutter; crime desk for the Herald-Express, which meant he knew every dirty thumbprint in the city. The kind of man who didn't bother with small talk unless it came with bourbon or blackmail.

I found him in his usual corner of Musso & Frank's, halfway through a steak and halfway into a hangover.

"Well, look what the tide washed in," he said, not looking up. "Miss Dumas in daylight. I didn't think you existed before sunset."

"Save the poetry," I said, sliding into the booth. "I need a favour."

He glanced at me. Then at the envelope I laid on the table. It was empty, but the implication was full.

"What name?"

"Celeste. No last name. Red hair. Looks like a woman who charges by the secret, not the hour."

His eyes narrowed. "You looking to hire her or bury her?"

"Just want to know who's keeping her warm."

He took out a notepad, wrote something, tore the sheet, and stuffed it in his pocket.

"I'll check the usuals. Aliases, permits, arrest logs, and county marriage records. Might take a few days."

"I need it tonight."

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you planning to start a war?"

I met his gaze. "I think I'm already in one."

He tapped a finger on the table.

"I'll do what I can. But off the record, Viv? If Celeste is who I think she is... you're chasing smoke. She's a ghost in heels. No prints. No paper. Just men who don't live long enough to testify."

I stood, thanked him, and left without ordering.

Because ghosts don't scare me.

People who make ghosts do.

I was reapplying lipstick in the dressing room mirror, trying to keep my hands steady, when Loretta walked in like someone had just read her name in a will and left her nothing but the dirt.

No perfume. No smirk. Not even her usual secondhand confidence.

She locked the door behind her.

"I shouldn't be telling you this," she said.

"Then you probably should."

She dropped onto the couch like her knees had lost the argument.

"I saw her."

I didn't ask who.

"Where?" I said instead.

"Biltmore Hotel. Yesterday."

"Alone?"

Loretta shook her head slowly.

"With a man. Not just any man. He looked... like money lost its patience. Like someone who didn't smile unless it hurt."

"Did she call him by name?"

She hesitated.

"Yes, Bishop."

The room went still.

I sat beside her.

"Are you sure?"

"She said it softly. But clear. Like it meant something sharp."

Loretta reached into her purse and pulled out a matchbook. Black. Gold lettering. From the hotel.

"She left this on the table."

I took it.

Room 1104 was scribbled inside.

"I don't want any part of this," Loretta whispered.

"You already had a part," I said gently. "You just didn't know what act you were in."

She looked at me then. Tired. Honest.

"If you go, don't go alone."

"I never do," I said.

But it was a lie.

Because that night, I would.

Frank showed up before my first set.

Didn't take his usual table. This time, he stood at the edge of the stage while I tuned with the band, arms folded like he'd been waiting for hours and only just decided he was tired of it.

I nodded once. That was all it took.

We met in the supply room behind the bar, where old menus and broken barstools went to die. He closed the door softly behind us.

"You've been busy," he said.

"You say that like it's a compliment."

"It's not. Not tonight."

I crossed my arms. "Then get to it."

"There's someone close to Bishop – inside his circle. They're leaking."

I raised a brow. "Leaking what?"

"Names. Meetings. Assets. He's tightening his grip, but he's losing control."

"And you want me to do what? Spy on someone I've never met for a man I don't trust?"

Frank stepped closer. Close enough I could smell his cologne. Woodsmoke and something darker.

"I think you've already been spying. You just didn't know which side you were on."

I hated how much truth that held.

"Why come to me now?" I asked.

"Because whoever Bishop's watching, he's watching you too. And if you're caught between them, you might as well get something out of it."

"Like what?"

Frank's eyes didn't blink.

"Survival".

That word had a weight I recognised.

I looked away.

Then nodded once.

But I didn't shake his hand.

Because you don't shake hands with a man who just invited you into a war.

The Biltmore wore its age well. Marble floors, chandeliers like frozen rain, bellboys who never blinked twice. It was the kind of place where money came to exhale and secrets took the elevator.

I walked in just after ten, dressed like someone who belonged high heels, dark gloves, sunglasses that stayed on even in the dim lobby. The elevator hummed like a lullaby. Floor eleven arrived too fast.

Room 1104 was at the end of the hall. Heavy door. Brass numbers. I listened first.

Nothing.

Then I walked past it. Once. Twice. On the third pass, the door cracked open.

Voices inside. Faint.

I leaned close.

"...he's getting too close," a woman said. The voice was unmistakable. Celeste.

"We knew he would," replied a man.

Rust.

My heart hit my ribs so hard I almost missed what came next.

"He's talking to the girl."

A pause.

Celeste again. "She's smarter than we thought."

"She's expendable."

Rust. Flat. Final.

I backed away before I could hear more.

I didn't run.

But I didn't breathe again until I hit the stairwell, heels in hand, heart in my throat.

Celeste and Rust.

Allies.

That changed everything.

I locked the apartment door behind me and didn't bother turning on the lights.

I needed the dark.

I paced.

Rust and Celeste.

Together.

Not just old lovers, not just ghosts from the same dirty closet. They were planning. Watching. Controlling. And I was in the center of it like a trick coin, flipping whichever way they chose.

I pulled the matchbook from my purse. Room 1104. Proof, but useless without the who and the why.

On the wall, the playing card still fluttered under the pin. Bishop's calling card.

I added a note beside it. One word: Celeste.

And another: Rust.

Three names now.

Frank Bishop. Rust.

All pointing to her.

And her pointing at me.

I sat at the table, poured a drink I didn't want, and stared at the crumpled napkin where I'd written everything I knew. It looked like a conspiracy and felt like a dare.

I was past the point of escape.

This wasn't about blackmail anymore.

This was about leverage. Layers. History.

They weren't watching me because of what I knew.

They were watching because of what I might become.

And in a game like this, the worst piece isn't the pawn.

It's the one that learns how to move.