Page 52 of The Sisters of Crimson House

“You are being evicted, dear. I’m afraid you don’t have many options at this point.” Peyton’s eyes glittered as she said this. Charley’s heart sank. They orchestrated this. If Sadie had still been alive, she thought in a panic, she would have known who to talk to, who to flatter, who to convince to buy them some time. But then who was she kidding? That iteration of Sadie had died when her parents did, her unique hybrid of southern hospitality and Morticia Addams cool gone with her.

“We’re actually entertaining another offer at this time,” said Zavier, stepping next to Charley.

“Really. And do they have experience with careful, painstaking historical restoration that Friends is willing and eager to employ?” Peyton was still smiling, but there was nothing friendly about her tone.

Zavier looked at Charley for a comeback, and she had nothing. What was there to say? They were right. Warner Knight would never be interested in a historical renovation. He just wanted to slap his name and branded zombies and ghosts on a house with a legacy that would be erased in the process. Black and Bell didn’t have the means to save Crimson House, not for lack of desperately trying. She didn’t want to be in a world where the Howard and Peyton Lovells won, but she would be fooling herself if that wasn’t the place she’d already lived a lifetime. And now Peyton was using that superhuman calming hand to touch her arm.

“We’re saving you from yourself, dear. It’s too much responsibility to take on.”

It was not having the intended effect. Saving her from herself? What in the actual fuck?

“What are they going on about?” asked Miranda, exiting the porch so that the caution tape caught her about the waist. She didn’t slow her pace until it snapped.

Howard and Peyton watched this with narrowed eyes. Charley felt her adrenaline surge as Miranda made her way to the sidewalk. She did not carry a sword by her side, but her eyes blazed like Death riding into battle.

“I’d heard you were back, Miranda,” said Howard, watching her as she approached. “Howard Lovell. My wife, Peyton.”

Miranda ignored him, focusing on Charley. “What’s happening?”

“They’re having us evicted so that they can buy the house since we aren’t interested in selling.” Charley smiled at Howard. “That sound like a fair recap?”

Howard sneered at Charley. “Young lady, we had nothing to do with your house becoming a death trap. That was all your doing.”

He wheeled on Miranda. “Friends has made a frankly ridiculous offer to buy this house. We can bring it back to its original glory. Living next door to…this…travesty has been…” He gestured at Crimson House in frustration as if he could no longer find words to describe the pain he was feeling.

“Friends?” Miranda echoed. “Who are these friends?”

“Friends of Elizabeth Street,” said Peyton with that ever-ready smile. “The nonprofit that Howard chairs.”

“It was created to save the neighborhood from people like you,” said Howard, tired of any niceties. “That house is a work of art, and quite honestly, I’d pay anything to see it restored to its original glory.”

“And what glory is that?” fired back Charley. “The city was ready to bulldoze this place until my family moved in.” She could only imagine the makeover the Lovells envisioned. “Let me guess: You’re thinking of a place for tea and cucumber sandwiches, and you tell stories about the nice businessman who built it with enslaved labor, but oops, we’ll just leave that part out.”

Both Howard and Peyton stiffened at this.

“We know that these homes have hosted all kinds of people with all kinds of persuasions over the decades,” said Howard tersely. “The Marquette house”—he would never call it Crimson House, thought Charley—“certainly contained some unsavory types, though with none of the hyperbole you claim on your tours.” When had Howard Lovell ever taken a Black and Bell tour? Charley wondered. “But Peyton and I are exceptionally proud that the Briggs-Lafayette House has a history as kind as the progenitor himself.”

Miranda was suddenly laser-focused on Howard. “Mr. Lafayette, you mean?” she asked, staring at him intently.

“Why, yes,” said Howard defensively. “Connor Lafayette was a gentleman, a pioneer of the arts. He even opened his home to orphans after the yellow fever epidemic. As stewards of the Lafayette House, Peyton and I are proud to be honoring his legacy.”

“Uh-huh,” said Miranda.

Howard returned his attention to Charley. “Charlotte, take the money. Move to Midtown, where your kind thrives.”

Charley blinked at him. “My kind?”

But Howard wasn’t paying attention to her anymore. Without another word, Miranda had made a beeline for the Briggs-Lafayette House.

“Where is she going?” he asked.

“Your house, from the looks of it,” Charley answered with a smile.

As if paralyzed, Howard watched helplessly as Miranda marched across his yard until Peyton yelled at him, grabbing his arm.

“Howard?” Peyton implored, and he finally charged after her, Charley, Astrid, and Zavier in hot pursuit.

“What is she doing?” whispered Astrid.