Chapter Thirty-Seven The Performer
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Performer
A heavy bell rang sluggishly as I opened my eyes. I rolled onto my back, the birds riding gentle winds against the rich reds and purples of dawn framed by the large window. The harbor was just beginning to wake around the time my dreams slipped from me.
I reached to my side to grasp an empty bed. The office loft was dusty, the light exposing every speck in the air. I suppressed a sneeze before sitting up, pulling the sheets close to me. On the stool beside the bed was a note.
Gone to get breakfast, will be back soon.
A
I pulled on my corset cover and my underskirt, just something to protect against a stray breeze. I took my time redressing in yesterday’s clothes, the smell of clay dust tickling my nose as I smoothed my skirts before I reached the ground floor.
The daylight washed away all apparitions from the night before. Without mingling shadows, the statues were as such: statues. The candles were cratered, dried to the floor with limp wicks.
On the small working table was an abandoned cup of water with some small sculpting tools soaking next to the morning papers. The circular window cast an oval eye over the bare floor. Scuffs in the dust across the floor replayed my dance from the night before.
I dragged my fingers over the table, flicking a few metal tools that chimed together before swiping the paper. It was a little wet from this morning, some of the ink bleeding at the edges.
Severed Arm Hung Outside Lago Factory: Whistleblower Acts Out Against Possible Human Rights Violations.
It took several moments of an empty stare for the headline to register. I read on:
Early this morning, our chief editor received a tip leading to the discovery of remains belonging to the now former New York City coroner Vincent Carlisle, outside the Kings County LAGO factory.
The severed arm was nailed to the doors, bent at ninety degrees, and pointing to a large stack of papers also pinned to the wood.
Sources haven’t confirmed the identity aside from an initialed signet ring on the deceased’s finger.
These papers allege human experimentation carried out by LAGO Pharmaceuticals, complete with photographs, names, and laboratory reports. The whistleblower remains unnamed. We confirmed with sources at all NYPD offices that an investigation is underway.
Chief Commissioner James Hunt leads the ongoing investigation of both the factory and the murder, assures the matter is being handled with upmost care.
There was no illustration of the scene, only a portrait of a decade-younger version of Mr. Carlisle smiling peacefully, knowing his body was found and that I would soon be caught.
My stomach dropped.
Below the table were bags, one open. Neatly folded clothing, a comb, a straight blade.
I fell to my knees.
Is he planning a trip?
Under the clothes, something else. My hand dove in, elbow deep before I felt it. A papery material. As if obscured purposefully by the clothes . . . piles of money hidden beneath his belongings.
No . . . he is going to leave.
I tossed the clothes to the floor, revealing more. It was like the bag never ended. I opened another bag, then the third. The same.
He was either stealing or taking bribes; I begged this wasn’t goodbye, either way.
Scrambling to stand, it was like I’d lost my land legs, shaking and wobbling as if my first time with feet. I bumped into one of the statues, nearly tipping it before I caught it by the arms—or rather, arm. Broken off.
I stared at it, the clay becoming heavy from the weight of where my mind went. Then it slipped from my hands, and it shattered, clay pieces skating across the floor before all was still.
Frozen. Everything. My train of thought, my body, the pieces on the floor. Enough to think, to conclude my initial gut feeling.
My dear Vincent, why must you haunt me so?
The smell of horsehair and fire starter, a dusting of ash.
Black grime beneath the fractured ceramic, like I’d simply dropped a flowerpot.
A dark, brittle material. It broke apart like charred meat within, molded around a support.
If I told my mind often enough, it could be.
This was all just dirt to hold flowers, the clay an elaborate containment of earth and life.
The bones were just stones, a drainage layer.
There were no bones, there was no Vincent, if only I closed my eyes and walked away.
Turning to the porcelain crowd, I feared my heart would not handle looking them in the eye, afraid to make the insinuation. To accuse them of harboring secrets much like my own.
Suddenly they felt more lifelike than ever before, always watching, always judging. They would look down on me for as long as I knew that they were not unlike me. The small difference of animate and inanimate.
The door slid open, then closed. A soft whistling as footsteps echoed across the warehouse.
“You lied to me.” I looked over my shoulder.
“About?” Arkady said distractedly as he stepped out from the statues with a small bag in hand. He looked at me in confusion and with caution, shrugging off his coat and placing it on the arm of a statue, placing the bag on its lap.
Then he saw, his secret spilled onto the floor, the clothes, the bags. His expression fell, but in dread.
“You . . .” My legs were moving, but it felt like I was falling. “You did this!” I shouted, slamming the crumpled newspaper into his chest.
He let the papers fall to the floor, looking to me with a stern expression, not needing to see to know of my discovery.
“It was necessary.” His hands reached cautiously for mine.
“You said you would protect me!” I threw his hands away from me. “You were going to leave me, is that it? Teach me to love, possess my body and soul, just to leave me more shattered than when you came?”
“I had to,” he said carefully, but then seemed to bite his tongue on any more explanations.
“All you had to do was keep him hidden! Get rid of him! Why did you keep him?” My throat caught, and I couldn’t stop shaking my head. “At my father’s factory too? You then led a trail of blood right back to us.”
“This is for your own good.” He was more reserved, cutting himself off from me. “You will understand soon.” He reached for my hand.
“You are sick! And selfish!” I seethed as he grasped my shoulders.
He held me at arm’s length, bending to meet me at eye level. “Calm yourself, I need you to listen.”
“No! You take your money and you run, you coward!” I cried, covering my face. “He will kill us, Arkady. He will!”
Arkady pulled me back into an embrace. “He won’t touch you—”
“And neither will you!” I screamed, shoving him so hard, I stumbled back.
“Petre.”
I felt a hand on my shoulder before slapping it away. “Don’t touch me!” My voice shook as much as my hand, my head light, stomach too empty to feel the spell of nausea.
“It was for the better—”
“The statue you donated,” I breathed. “The one of the couple, for the charity auction.”
He shut his mouth, swallowing thickly.
“Was it . . .” I knew in my heart what the answer would be.
“Please.” He reached out to grab me, and I jolted back.
“Were they people?” My lip trembled uncontrollably. “Have you been doing this all along?” I whispered, so softly it was likely no sound came.
He left me with no answer.
“I need to be away from you—”
“Let me explain—”
“Far away,” I said sharply, already making for the door.
“Wait—” He grabbed my arm.
“What part of don’t touch me do you not understand?” I yanked my wrist from his hand like it burned the very skin it touched. “Leave me! Leave me like you planned and spare me any more heartache!”
I didn’t wait for another moment, another opportunity to falter.
His charms were no longer effective, not while I was seeing clearly.
The disgust in my gut, the rot in my heart, was reserved just for him.
A small part of me wondered if my reaction was somehow a reflection of how I felt about myself, but I wasn’t in a proper headspace to dissect that inclination.
I needed to be away . . . not to hurt him, not to abandon anyone, but to think. To process. To finally escape this hell.