“It can’t be Charlie,” Maximoff concludes. “Jesus, does he even know we’re here?” “He does,” Thatcher says, coming closer to the bar with Farrow. I rotate on the stool. “What do you mean?” I rush to obtain whatever knowledge they’ve acquired. “Charlie texted me earlier.” Thatcher squats and collects my trampled fur coat off the floor. Dirtied. He splays the filthy thing on a vacant stool. “Your brother asked where I was. So I told him.” I’m wary. “That was all he wanted?” Thatcher nods.
