Chapter 2
ELOWYN
ON BEHALF OF THE RESTORER
You, Elowyn Faye Montgomery, are hereby invited to participate and assist in a private restoration commission.
Condition: Immediate relocation to the designated residence for the duration of the project.
Should you have questions or wish to accept, text the number listed below.
I rub my thumb over the embossed gold letters. The pad of my finger drags over each one as my mind tries to make sense of the words. Of this message printed on expensive black paper.
The Restorer.
A private commission.
Ten million dollars.
Immediate relocation.
Again and again, I read it, refusing to believe anything like this would be addressed to me.
I can’t possibly be a part of a private commission. Can’t be useful to someone like The Restorer.
Granted, I know who he is. The whole world does, I think.
For the past six or seven years, I’ve heard his name whispered everywhere.
That is, before Barclay’s drama shut us out entirely from the people of this town.
Never mind. I’m not going to obsess over the past when a brighter future is just within reach.
Thanks to The Restorer. The enigma. The tall man with thick brown hair who always wears a mask to his meetings. A plain white one, smooth as porcelain, the kind worn at masquerades.
His true identity remains a secret, but his clients trust him anyway—for good reason.
Everyone, including the wealthiest people in the country, hands him their paintings, sculptures, and antique books.
Some say he’s such a perfectionist that it’s as if the spirit of every artist whose work he restores takes over.
The pristine condition in which he returns their pieces is unmatched.
At that reminder, my optimism vanishes as if it never existed.
Because, again…why would he choose me? I’m a nobody.
“This has to be a mistake,” I murmur to myself.
Except it isn’t. Other than the cryptic message, my full name is on there.
Gold on black.
A harsh gust of wind whips at my back, snapping me out of my musings.
A feeling follows right behind, pushing against my ribs, telling me he’s here.
Not The Restorer. Not anyone else but him. The boy who used to be my brother’s best friend.
Impossible. Or is it?
“Duncan?” I breathe, shoving the invitation into the envelope before I spin around, scanning the street. “Are you here?”
No one answers. No one steps forward. Only a thin veil of fog creeps in, soft at first, then thicker. More ominous.
The silence, the shift in the air, it sends chills down my spine. My fingers clutch the envelope, bending the expensive paper. Warmth and resentment wrestle for dominance as my gaze sweeps the street, searching, searching, searching.
“Duncan?” I repeat, a little louder this time. My throat doesn’t allow much more than a whisper. “This isn’t funny, tricking me.”
Another gust of wind picks up golden leaves on the other side of the street. They flutter for a moment, then fall in our neighbor’s front yard.
“I’m not mad.” The words leave me before I can stop them.
I used to be, sort of. His reaction to our kiss hurt. His leaving without talking to me, without giving me a chance to apologize for making him so uncomfortable, was worse.
Not anymore. Especially not tonight. It’s hard to focus on that when all I want is to look at his gorgeous face. For him to step out of the shadows and tell me I’m not imagining this.
“Just come out already. You’re freaking me out.”
Nothing.
Maybe this isn’t him after all. Come to think of it, it’s probably not.
Scaring me, he never would’ve done it. Ever.
In that case, a stranger is lurking out here on my street.
Someone who probably has nothing to do with the invitation and everything to do with my brother. Maybe they’re waiting for me to open the gates so they can get to Barclay when he’s at his weakest.
They’re going to take care of him, the man who hurt so many people. Who—maybe, I don’t know—has gambling debts that need to be collected.
And since I’m all alone out here, they won’t hesitate to come after me too. An appetizer before they go in for the kill.
“Dammit,” I groan, stuffing the letter into my bag.
As fast as humanly possible, I twist the key, get in, slam the gates behind me, and lock them.
“I’m calling the cops.” Liar.
Barclay would lose it if I did that. He doesn’t trust the justice system after we lost the civil lawsuit.
“I will.” My threat is nothing but jagged words clawing up my throat. “Leave and don’t come back.”
The wind answers me, a low howl. This whistle, this omen, it sends me running. Sprinting, actually.
My bag bangs against my side. My sneakers crunch over the derelict driveway.
Panic rises, a dangerous tide that wants to drown me under it. It’s messing with my head. I nearly miss the crack in the asphalt that I know better than to step on.
Every few seconds, I turn to look behind me. Our alarm systems no longer function. The gates are tall, but they won’t stop someone with a big enough grudge.
Thankfully, no one’s there.
Not like it slows me.
Cold air in, vapored breath out.
I’m getting closer. My home key is in my hand.
Finally, I make it, climbing the weather-stained marble stairs to our porch.
I shove the key in the lock, groaning in frustration when it won’t turn. Even lubricant oil is out of our budget now, so I just have to…
If I twist my hand like this, push the handle like that, and…
There, the door opens.
Next time, it might not. Next time, I might have to break the window to get into my own house.
Unless I accept The Restorer’s offer.
Before I do, though, Barclay has to agree to it. I don’t want to have to ask for permission, but I owe him.
What am I talking about? He’ll approve. Of course he will, especially since we’ve run out of options.
Plus, the invitation looks legit. A serious offer from a serious person.
If it weren’t, The Restorer wouldn’t have bothered with such a pretty letter, right?
Worst case, if I’m wrong about his intentions and this offer is about sex, I’ll know the moment I meet him. Then I’ll refuse politely. Tell him that, no matter how desperate I am, I’ll have to decline.
Easy.
Once I’m inside the house, I take a deep, steadying breath and collect myself.
Before I go up to Barclay’s room, I lean against the wall by the door, squeezing my eyes shut.
God, I hope this is legitimate.
Ten million dollars could change our lives.
Splitting the money between my brother and me would solve all our problems. He could pay for medical care around the clock and invest the rest. Then, I could leave this place. Start over.
Have a life.
“Elly, I hear you down there.” Barclay’s shout echoes from the second floor. “Where the fuck are you?”
On instinct, I flinch back against the wall.
I guess tonight isn’t a good time to bring up the invitation. When he’s on the edge, everything pisses him off. He’d make a scene. Tell me flat out no. Guilt me into staying.
Tomorrow, once he’s rested, we’ll talk.
“Coming,” I call out, rushing to the kitchen, turning lights on and off as I go.
Air filters into my lungs, warmth filling my chest, because soon—unless the invitation in my bag turns out to be something demeaning or violent—I won’t have to worry about the electricity bill.
I’ll live in my own home, will be able to leave the kitchen light on, like Dad used to, so we could find our way there at night.
I could—
“Elly!”
That nickname, I hate it. He started calling me that after the accident, only to accuse me of something I didn’t do.
“Be right there.” Sing-songing often appeases him, so that’s how I go about it while I yank open the fridge.
Water bottle. The turkey sandwich I prepared earlier this week.
I grip both tightly and go up the stairs.
A sour smell oozes through the hall, as if ten teenagers have crashed out here for the night. There’s no one here, though. No one other than my broken brother, whose pain makes him sweat despite the chill filtering into the house.
“Finally,” he barks, scowling in my direction. “Took you forever.”
Like I thought, sweat beads on his forehead, making the strands of his ashy blond hair stick to his temples.
His sheets are soaked too. I’ll have to change them later.
Right now, he’s going to demand his meds.
I hope he eats his sandwich before he passes out.
He needs it, even though his appetite is nowhere near what it used to be.
“Sorry.” Forcing my lips into a smile is a hardship.
I’m tired. Scared. In desperate need of a shower. But I try for him. Judging by the pale complexion of his skin, Barclay has it worse than whatever I’m going through.
“Got my painkillers?” His blue eyes latch onto my uniform’s pocket, knowing the bottle will be there.
“Yes, they’re right here.” After placing the water and sandwich on his nightstand, I reach into my pocket and pull the bottle out. “In a few seconds, I’ll—”
I don’t get to finish the sentence. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s the invitation. Maybe it’s Barclay hissing, “Come on, come on.”
Whatever it is, my thumb slips over the cap.
Dozens of pills tumble out.
“What the fuck!” His eyes widen, mouth gaping at the scattered pills on the floor. “Elly, you stupid bitch.”
Tears well in my eyes, my knees scraping the floor before I can even think.
“Please, stop.” Picking everything up, I wipe each pill on my skirt before putting them back in the bottle. “I don’t like it when you talk to me like that.”
“Like what? Like the stupid bitch who dropped my meds?” He snarls, pushing his hand down where I can see it. “Give me two. Give them.”
“You’re being mean, Barclay.” Angrily, I stuff two clean ones into his palm. “It’s not like I did it on purpose.”
“You weren’t being careful either.” The pills are gone in his mouth in a split second. His teeth grind them to dust before he swallows. “Sometimes I think you don’t care about me at all.”
“How can you say that?” My chin quivers. My chest twists. “My whole life revolves around you.”
“No, my whole life revolves. Around. You.” He leans forward, flinching from the pain, but only slightly. The drugs are kicking in. “Who picked up the pieces when douchebag Duncan left? Who managed the business after Dad died?”
Who told me that crying was for weak assholes? That I shouldn’t even think about contacting Duncan because I’d be making a fool of myself?
Who tore apart our business to pay his gambling debts?
I don’t say any of those things, though I absolutely should.
“Or maybe you forgot who saved your ass?” His voice drops lower, mocking. “Who killed the man who was in your room, about to attack you?”
He’s right about that. As furious, aching, and humiliated as I am, I owe him my life. He protected me when it mattered. When I had no one else, I had my brother.
That memory, more than my mom’s words, is what keeps me loyal.
Shackled.
“I’m going to bed.” Defeated, I get up, then turn to leave. “Goodnight.”
I make it to the door when Barclay says, “Hold it.”
My shoulders tense. I take a deep breath, returning to face him. “What?”
“What’s going on?” His eyebrows lower, creases forming on his forehead. “You’re different. It’s like you’re… Are you hiding something from me?”
“I’m not hiding anything.” But dammit, my cheeks, they’re hot.
“Come here.”
Fear clutches my lungs. I shake my head.
He growls. “I said, come. Here.”
“Okay, okay. You’re right.” I wring my hands, staying at a safe distance. “I’m hiding something.”
His nostrils flare, though his eyelids grow heavier by the second. “What’s that, exactly?”
“This.” With a clammy palm, I reach inside my bag. For some reason, the feel of the thick paper infuses courage into me. “I was going to tell you tomorrow. But since you asked, I got an invitation.”
“An invitation?” He tilts his head. “What the fuck for?”
I bite my tongue before I tell him I’m really sick of being demeaned all the time.
“Yes, an invitation,” I clip. “From The Restorer. For an art commission.”
Barclay’s quiet. Could it be he’s considering this?
If he is, he might say yes.
Warmth spreads through me. I start bouncing on my toes.
“He’s going to compensate me for this, Barc.” A smile tugs at my lips. If my brother is on board, everything will be so much easier. “Ten million dollars.”
He swallows. Sits up straighter against the headboard.
Glowers.
“What?” Against my own advice, I edge closer. I can’t help it. The fear that his pain is so bad that he might need another pill tonight weakens my resolve. “Are you okay? I—like I said, we can talk about it tomorrow.”
“Ten million dollars? From a man?” Ruthlessly, he rips the envelope from my hand, snatching the note out.
“Not just any man. You heard about him.” My voice is nothing but a whisper. I sound like I’m begging, so I clear my throat. “He’s famous. It’s safe.”
“Yeah, I did hear about the fancy freak in a mask.” His eyes snap up, burning into mine.
Why does he keep clinging to all that hate?
“A wealthy motherfucker who apparently wants to make a whore of my sister. Screw you and send you back to me, broken and used. Then who would marry The Restorer’s sloppy seconds? Hmm? You ever think about that?”
I want to tell him that offering me up for money and status makes him no better than the thing he’s accusing The Restorer of.
One day, I’ll be bold enough to say it out loud.
Just not today.
“It’s not like that.” My hands curl into fists at my sides. Shame and anger scald me. “It says private commission.”
“While conveniently forgetting to add whore between private and commission.” Barclay stares me down.
“Quit it.” I raise a hand to my chest, willing my pulse to settle. Urging my heart not to bleed out from how my brother’s treating me.
What I don’t do is ask for the invitation back. Then he’d tear it to pieces out of spite.
“You’ll be no one’s whore.” His eyelids grow even heavier. Speech slurring. “End of discussion.”
The sentence ends with a snore.
His entire body goes limp, sagging onto the bed. His hand opens, releasing the invitation.
I snatch it before it hits the floor, clutching it close to my body.
Maybe I’ll never text The Restorer. Maybe it’s a scam.
Or maybe Barclay’s right. Maybe it’s the kind of arrangement where I’m expected to trade sex for money.
But what if it isn’t? What if, for once, I’ll be able to be the hero of my story?
Not to mention, it could be an experience of a lifetime.
Maybe, after that, I’d finally be brave enough to pick up the phone and call Duncan. If he hasn’t changed his number, we could talk about us. Our past. Figure things out, even.
Maybe.
I scurry out of Barclay’s room and into mine, hiding the invitation under my mattress.
Where it’s safe. A secret.
Mine.