16. Moon
16
MOON
T he soft glow of the bedside lamp bathed the room in a warm, golden light. Conrad was stretched out beside me, naked, the sheet slung low across his hips as he scrolled through his phone with one hand, his other resting lazily on my thigh. My own phone buzzed against the nightstand, but I wasn’t focused on notifications—I was focused on a photo he’d taken of me earlier, back on the balcony.
It was stunning.
The black-and-white image captured everything: the soft curve of my back as I leaned against the railing, the intricate lace of my thong barely visible in the shadows, the teasing glimpse of my breast as I’d turned just enough to glance over my shoulder. My expression was sultry, my lips parted, and the faint lights behind me blurred into a romantic haze.
“Got anyone you’re gonna show that to?” Conrad asked. “It’s sexy as fuck. Everyone and no one should get to see it.”
“I mean…it’d be rude not to share your masterpiece.”
“Masterpiece, huh?”
I grinned, already typing.
Moon
Mr. Nature Photography doesn’t just photograph birds.
I hit send before I could overthink it, the photo filling the group chat a second later. My pulse jumped, not with nerves but with anticipation. I already knew how they’d react.
The responses came almost instantly:
Hendrix
holy fucking shit i think i just came
Holden
Hottest bird I’ve ever seen.
Conrad barked out a laugh beside me, his grin wide as he glanced over my shoulder at the messages. “They’re losing it right now. I know I would be…if you weren’t already naked in bed next to me.”
“Think I should send another?”
Conrad arched an eyebrow.
I grinned, ignoring him as I texted the group chat again.
Wanna see what happened next?
“Moon,” Conrad groaned, grabbing his own phone again, his thumbs flying over the screen as he typed. I could see the amusement sparking in his eyes as he hit send, and a second later, his message popped up in the chat.
Conrad
moon you better not send a dick pic to the boys I swear to god
Hendrix
i’d prefer show-and-tell in person tbh
Holden
When are we meeting up? We need to go over the ledger photos.
Conrad snorted beside me, his eyes flicking to my screen. “The professor’s all business. As usual.”
“Someone has to be,” I said, grinning as I propped myself up on my elbows to type back.
your loss
that piercing is a thing of beauty
Another reply buzzed through almost immediately.
Hendrix
fuuuuck might get hard again
let’s meet at midnight
conrad still has the photos right??
Conrad
of my dick or the ledger?
well, I guess it’s a yes either way
Holden
Midnight. We gotta investigate the button in Blanton’s office.
“Guess they’re all in,” I murmured, glancing at Conrad.
Conrad set his phone down, his grin widening. “Of course they are. Hendrix would break in on his own if we didn’t show up.”
The group chat lit up again, Hendrix’s reply making me snort.
Hendrix
moon you think conrad will hang that nude is his exhibit
all of charleston would be walking around with boners
private viewings only, ya perv
“Jesus Christ,” Conrad groaned, dropping his head back onto the pillow with a laugh. “He’s never gonna shut up about this.”
“You’d miss it if he did,” I teased, nudging him with my elbow.
He looked over at me, his grin softening as his hand slid lazily to rest on my thigh. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice low. “I would.”
The street was hushed, lined with upscale boutiques and cozy restaurants, all dark and silent now that the city's bustle had faded. The gallery stood among them with a quiet elegance. Tall windows framed by ornate moldings glinted faintly in the moonlight, offering glimpses of shadowed artworks within.
Hendrix and Holden were already waiting by the door, the faint glow of their phones lighting up their faces. As Conrad unlocked the door, I stayed close behind him, Hendrix and Holden following me as we made our way inside.
“Still using the same passcode?” Hendrix asked as the soft chime of the alarm filled the space.
Conrad moved toward the keypad without a word, his fingers deftly punching in numbers. The beeping cut off with a faint click, leaving the gallery in silence. “Yeah, bro. Your birthday.”
“Thought so.” Hendrix’s grin was audible in his voice. “Sentimental, isn’t he?”
We moved further inside, the air cooler and carrying the faint tang of varnish. The space felt cavernous in the dark, the polished floors stretching out into shadows broken only by slivers of moonlight. My eyes traced the outlines of paintings hung on the walls, their details lost in the dim light, and I felt a pang of regret.
“I wish I could see this during the day,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone else.
Hendrix fell into step beside me, his voice soft and teasing. “Next time, we’ll give you the full tour. Bright lights, overpriced champagne, the works.”
I huffed a quiet laugh, glancing up at him. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Blanton’s office was at the back of the gallery, and even in the low light, it exuded a kind of curated perfection. The mahogany desk in the center of the room gleamed faintly, its surface pristine except for a neat stack of papers and a sleek leather notebook. One wall was lined with shelves filled with books, while the opposite wall held two smaller paintings framing a larger piece of Charleston’s waterfront.
“It’s very…put together,” I commented with hesitation.
“Controlled,” Holden said from beside me, his tone flat but not unkind.
“Curated,” Conrad corrected, moving toward the desk. Here, he said, pulling the ledger from Blanton’s top drawer. “Since we’re here, you might as well see it in person.”
It was a faded, leather-bound book, its pages covered in neat rows of handwriting. There were lists of paintings, the artist, the buyer, the date, and other key details. Stamped beside certain entries was a small symbol: a crow perched on a key.
“What is that?” I asked, leaning closer.
“No idea,” Conrad said, shaking his head.
“It has to mean something,” I said, glancing between them.
“Well, I don’t know what to do with the symbol, but I definitely want to see what my dad’s hiding with the button,” Hendrix said. “In all the times I’ve been in here, he’s never shown me anything like that.”
Conrad pointed to a spot on the built-in bookshelf, his fingers brushing over the spines before he pulled out a heavy book on the end of the row. Behind it, hidden against the wood, was a small button barely visible in the low light.
“This is it. What’re we thinking? Safe? Panic room? Portal to another dimension?”
“If this opens up a wall of guns, I’m leaving. If it’s his sex dungeon, I’m leaving faster,” Holden scoffed.
“All we can go is roll the dice and found out,” Conrad said, unceremoniously pushing the button.
With a faint click, the shelf shifted on hidden hinges, swinging inward like a door to reveal the room behind it.
We froze.
“Holy shit,” Hendrix breathed, stepping closer.
The space beyond the door was dark, the faint glow from Conrad’s flashlight casting long shadows across the room. Dust motes hung in the air, shimmering faintly in the beam. It was an artist’s studio, untouched and forgotten, frozen in time.
I stepped in after Conrad, my breath catching as the room came into view. The walls were lined with canvases, some stacked neatly in rows, others leaning in uneven piles. A long table stretched across the center of the room, cluttered with brushes, dried tubes of paint, and sheets of paper dusty with age. Two easels stood side by side, each holding a canvas mid-progress, as if the artist had just stepped out for a moment and never returned.
“It’s his,” Conrad said softly, his voice filled with something reverent, almost fragile. “It’s James’ studio.”
Holden moved past me, his steps slow and hesitant, his hand brushing the edge of the table as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His gaze landed on the nearest stack of paintings, his fingers hovering just above the surface of the canvas.
“He hid this,” Holden murmured, his voice tight. “All of this.”
“It’s incredible,” I said, trailing my fingers lightly over the edge of the table. Dust clung to my fingertips, the faint scent of oil paint lingering in the air.
We spread out, each of us drawn to different corners of the hidden room.
The paintings were unmistakably James’. The first ones I saw were landscapes, their colors lush and layered, capturing the marshes and waterways of the Lowcountry in vibrant oil pastels. The way he painted the reeds bending in the breeze, the shimmer of light on still water—it was alive, almost tangible.
Other paintings were more intricate—detailed facades of Charleston’s historic homes, their wrought-iron balconies and colorful shutters rendered with painstaking precision. One canvas depicted a cobblestone alley I thought I recognized, the light filtering through overhanging branches in a way that felt both familiar and dreamlike.
Holden stood in front of one of the easels, his shoulders tense, his hand gripping the edge of the frame. His face was shadowed, but I could see the weight of the moment pressing down on him, the quiet anguish in the way he looked at his brother’s unfinished work.
“Hey,” Conrad said softly, stepping up beside him. He placed a hand on Holden’s shoulder, his voice low. “You alright?”
Holden let out a shaky breath, his grip loosening. “It’s just…seeing all of this. Knowing he was here. It’s—” His voice broke off, and he shook his head.
Conrad squeezed his shoulder, grounding him. “We’ll figure this out.”
While they talked, Hendrix moved quietly through the room, his gaze sweeping over the table and shelves, scanning for anything that might hold a clue. He opened drawers, lifted papers, and flipped through notebooks with a calm focus that felt at odds with his usual demeanor.
Meanwhile, I studied the paintings, my fingers trailing lightly along the edges of the canvases. Each piece felt like a story—a piece of James’ world.
I paused in front of one of the easels, drawn to the painting it held. It was another gate, this one more intricate than the others I’d seen. The wrought-iron filigree twisted and curled in delicate, ornate patterns, ivy creeping through the gaps. The detail was incredible, the kind of thing you could look at for hours and still find something new.
And then I saw it.
“Guys,” I said, my voice catching.
They turned toward me as I leaned closer, my heart skipping as my eyes traced the pattern. There, hidden in the swirls of the filigree, was the same symbol from the ledger: a crow perched on a key.
“It’s here,” I said, pointing to it.
Conrad and Hendrix moved to my side, their gazes sharpening as they followed my finger.
“That’s it,” Conrad confirmed, his voice low.
Holden stepped closer, his expression hardening as he studied the painting. “James painted real places. This gate—it has to exist somewhere in Charleston.”
I nodded, my fingers brushing lightly over the edge of the canvas. “Then we find it. Whoever it belongs to might be the key to all of this. No pun intended.”
“You guys, James could have left other clues in the paintings,” Conrad exclaimed. “I need to photograph them all so we can review them carefully. Will you guys bring a few over at a time so we put them back each in the right spot?”
I carried the first batch over, sliding a smaller canvas onto the table for Conrad. Hendrix was flipping through a different stack, his movements easy until he stopped abruptly, his fingers tightening around the edge of a canvas.
“Wait a fucking second.”
His head tilted, brow furrowed, eyes scanning the painting with growing intensity. He didn’t say anything else, just stared like something in the image had grabbed him by the throat.
Conrad glanced up from his own search. “What?”
Hendrix ignored him. Instead, he turned, scanning the room until his eyes landed on Holden. “Come here.”
Holden, who had been quiet, caught in his own world of memories and paint, barely looked up. “What?”
“Come look at this.”
Something in Hendrix’s tone must have cut through the haze because Holden exhaled sharply and crossed the room. Hendrix didn’t move as Holden stepped beside him, his jaw tight, his arms crossed like he was already bracing himself.
Then his whole body went still.
“Holy shit. That’s the alley behind The Silver Vine .”
I moved closer, drawn in by their discovery. It was an alley, narrow and shadowed, the kind of place you’d walk past a hundred times without a second thought. James had captured it in painstaking detail—the uneven cobblestones, the soft glow of gas lamps, the creeping ivy that clung to the faded brick walls.
Hendrix dragged a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I thought so. I needed you to confirm it.”
“Yeah,” Holden said, his voice tight. “That’s the side entrance. The kitchen door.”
My gaze drifted to the far end of the alley, where James had painted a back entry door—plain and unassuming, tucked behind the faint outline of a wrought-iron gate. At first glance, it seemed like nothing, just another forgotten doorway in Charleston’s maze of historic streets. But as I leaned closer, my stomach tightened.
“You guys. Look at James’ markings. If you look closely at the door, you can see the mark.”
The crow perched on a key, barely visible in the weathered door frame, almost as if it had been carved there and painted over.
And then there were the vines. Subtle and silver, they twisted through the cracks in the walls and around the base of the door. James had woven them in so delicately that they could have been part of the natural decay, but now that I was looking for it, the meaning was impossible to miss. The longer I stared, the clearer it became—James hadn’t just painted this for the sake of it.
He had left a message.
“The crow and key and the silver vines,” I breathed, “He knew what this place was. He knew a lot more than we do because we don’t even know what the crow and key represents. We just know it’s a speakeasy and a sex club and, for some odd reason, the marking in Blanton’s ledger matches the marking on this door.”
Holden was still staring, his grip flexing at his sides. His voice was quieter when he spoke. Holden crossed his arms, his jaw tightening. “He wasn’t just painting for the sake of it. These aren’t just historic street scenes—he was trying to expose something.”
Hendrix let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “James, what the hell did you get yourself into?”
The weight of the discovery settled over us, thick as the dust in the air.
A hidden mark. A door none of us were meant to find. A trail James had left behind.
The room fell quiet again, the weight of the discovery settling over us. For a moment, none of us moved, the air heavy with dust and memory, and the faint, unspoken realization that James had left us more than just paintings—he’d left a web of secrets waiting to be uncovered.