She bunched the thin sheet in her hands, torn between fury and fear. Henry was lying, he had to be. If he hadn’t killed those girls, hadn’t killed Abriana, he knew who did. Willhie, probably. She should go to the police, but then what would happen? She’d be questioned again, longer this time and not at Riverview but one of the city stations. She’d be searched and exposed as a girl, maybe even arrested and sent to the detention home.

She felt under the mattress for her shiv and slipped it into her pocket, turned onto her side, and stared at the two photos. Her mother’s words repeated in her mind like Red Friend’s bally.

No one is safe, no one is safe…

Not Clyde, not brave Harriet, who was remembered only because she’d been filmed, flying and dying. Would anyone remember Clyde if they hanged him?

No one remembered Abriana except for her and their mother. People only remembered you if someone took your photograph or painted your picture, or used your face to sell soda or magic tricks. Everyone else was forgotten. Everybody else just died.

Chapter 63

Chapter 63

THE TRAIN ARRIVED half a day late into the Niles station. Chaplin passed the time reading and gazing out the window as the California desert crawled past, a vast waste of scrub and cactus punctuated by settlements that looked as though they’d been constructed by bored children deprived of anything except the most rudimentary blocks and tools. When the porter finally rapped at his compartment door and announced they were approaching Niles, Chaplin blew him a kiss. Then he stood, gathered his hat and valise, and peered out at the platform.

A good-sized crowd waited to meet the train—the California Limited, first class only. He’d grown accustomed to being met by fans and reporters, but surely only the most stalwart of his fans would have braved the afternoon heat of an August day to catch a glimpse of Charlie Chaplin. So he was mildly surprised as two men, one lugging a camera, rushed toward him as he stepped onto the platform.

“Mr. Chaplin!” The other man flapped a newspaper in Chaplin’s face. “Care to make a comment on this?”

Chaplin glanced at the front page of the Los Angeles Times, where the photo of him and that adorable little girl from Essanay took up several columns. He shook his head and smiled. “That’s yesterday’s news, fellas. I was just there for a visit, I’m—”

“This is last night’s edition, Mr. Chaplin—our paper, we’re all from the Los Angeles Times. What do you have to say?”

“Not much to say, is there?” He flashed the photographer a smile as the man fiddled with his camera. “Other than I’m glad to be back in California. And I’ll be starting work on A Night in the Show this week.”