17. Holden
17
HOLDEN
T he air outside Blanton’s gallery was sharp and heavy, clinging to my skin like the weight of everything we’d just seen. James’s studio—his paintings, his secrets—felt like a door opening into a world I wasn’t ready for but couldn’t avoid. The crow symbol Moon had uncovered on the door of The Silver Vine had seemed to stare at me, mocking my lack of answers. My brother had been leaving messages, and even in death, he’d managed to stay ten steps ahead.
“I’ve got them all photographed. We’ll study them back at the house,” Conrad said, his voice tight with the tension that had gripped us all. No one argued.
The drive back was quiet but charged, the kind of silence that crackled with the weight of unsaid things. Moon sat beside me in the backseat, her hand brushing mine occasionally. Hendrix hummed under his breath, a nervous tick, while Conrad kept his eyes fixed on the road, his grip on the wheel tight.
When we got to the house, we piled into the living room, each of us finding a spot on the oversized L-shaped sectional that curved around the big coffee table. A soft glow from the table lamp in the corner bathed the room in warm light. Conrad got set up to cast the high-resolution photos of my brother’s paintings to the large screen TV mounted over the mantle, so we could discuss each one together as a group.
Hendrix lounged in the middle of the sectional, his long legs stretched out and propped up on the coffee table. As we settled in, he grabbed his phone and put on some chill house music, the soft ambient sound filling the room and making the atmosphere feel less solemn. I perched on the arm of the sofa at the other end, my hands resting on my knees as I tried to stay still. Moon slid close to me, leaning into my side, her notebook balanced on her lap, her pen poised to take notes. Her hand rested lightly on my thigh, her touch grounding, and at some point, she reached back for a knitted blanket and spread it across both our laps.
The first piece appeared on the screen, a stunning depiction of a Charleston garden—vivid greens, iron gates gleaming in the sunlight, and soft shadows that seemed almost alive. I swallowed hard, the image pulling me back to summers spent in James’s orbit, watching him pour his soul into every brushstroke.
Moon took the lead, perched on the edge of the couch with a notebook balanced on her knee. “The gate,” she said, pointing to the intricate wrought ironwork in the center of the painting. “Look at the scrollwork. He had a crow in the last one so we need to search this one carefully.”
Conrad zoomed in, the details sharpening. At first glance, it was beautiful—elegant swirls and curves—but the closer you looked, the more the pattern shifted. Hidden among the graceful lines was the crow perched on a key.
“There’s the symbol again,” Hendrix said, leaning forward, his fingers tapping the edge of the couch. “I wish we knew what the hell a crow and a key meant. And how it’s linked to my dad.”
Another painting filled the screen, this one of a private garden enclosed by ivy-covered walls. The leaves looked so real I could almost feel the rough texture beneath my fingers, but as Moon directed Conrad to zoom in, the beauty fractured. Hidden in the ivy were faint shapes: eyes peering out, their expressions sharp and watching.
“Creepy eyes,” Conrad observed, his jaw tightening. “Maybe James was saying something about surveillance.”
Moon leaned forward, her pen poised over her notebook. “Wait—zoom in there,” she said, pointing to a darker patch of ivy near the center of the painting. Conrad adjusted the image on the screen, sharpening the details further.
Nestled among the painted leaves was something more: tiny script, nearly imperceptible, blending into the shadows of the artwork. The words were subtle, almost camouflaged, and my stomach twisted as Conrad read them aloud.
“‘Behind the wall, the watchers wait,’” he said, his voice low, each word heavy with implication.
A sharp chill ran through me. James had hidden these warnings so meticulously, buried in layers of detail only the most careful eye would catch. My chest tightened, a mix of anger and sadness rising like a tide. How long had my brother been carrying these secrets alone, embedding them in his work, hoping someone would finally uncover them? And who in the fuck were the watchers?
The next painting Conrad cast onto the screen was a picturesque view of a wrought-iron gate leading into a garden. The scene was quintessential Charleston: cobblestones underfoot, the shadows of moss-draped oak trees stretching across a lush, flower-filled space. The iron gate itself was intricate, with swirling patterns that felt alive, twisting and curling like vines.
“It’s beautiful,” Moon murmured, her pen poised above her notebook. “But look at the gate—there’s something about the symmetry of the design.”
Conrad zoomed in on the filigree, and we all leaned forward. “There,” Hendrix said, pointing. “That looks like something. It’s like a cross with two sailboats hanging from it or something.”
“Is that some religious symbol?” I asked. “I don’t get the sailboats. And why is the right sailboat pulled down and the left sailboat is up like a seesaw?”
“You guys! It isn’t a seesaw or a cross. I think it’s that thing symbol of law or justice,” Hendrix exclaimed. “The scales of justice. That’s a thing, right?”
Moon tilted her head, her brow furrowing. “Could be,” she said. “We’ll have to research that.” She sketched a rough version of the design in her notebook, underlining the phrase “scales of justice” with a question mark.
“Is the crow and key anywhere in here?” I asked, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.
The four of us scanned the painting like it was a treasure map. The silence stretched for several minutes before I said we should move on, no one spotting a crow in that one.
“Maybe not every painting has it,” Hendrix said, leaning back against the couch. “Or maybe we’re missing something.”
Conrad nodded and shifted to the next painting. This one depicted an ivy-covered brick wall, the edges of the canvas framed by bright pops of azalea bushes. The ivy was dense, so detailed it felt like you could touch the leaves and feel their veins under your fingertips.
“Do you see anything in the ivy?” Moon asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.
Conrad zoomed in, sharpening the leaves until the smallest details came into view. There were shadows within shadows, faint shapes that made Hendrix mutter, “That’s creepy,” under his breath.
“Could just be tricks of the paint,” Conrad said, though he sounded unconvinced. “But I think it’s deliberate. Look how the darker shades almost form a pattern here.”
Conrad switched to the next image, this one brighter: a street corner with Charleston’s historic charm on full display. Vibrant pastel buildings lined the cobblestones, their windows gleaming in the sunlight. In the foreground, a gas lamp stood tall, its light casting faint shadows on the street below.
“That’s Broad Street,” I said without hesitation. “Right by the old Exchange Building.”
Moon nodded, noting it down. “Since these are all real places, we can investigate them to figure out why he targeted them.”
“Or what he saw in them,” Conrad added. “Zoom in on the lamp,” Moon said suddenly.
Conrad adjusted the image, and the glass of the lamp seemed to shimmer as the details sharpened. Hidden faintly in the reflected light was something small and precise—script so tiny it felt impossible to notice without James guiding you there.
“‘Beneath the surface, shadows bleed,’” Moon read aloud, her voice quiet but steady. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s ominous,” Hendrix muttered, stretching his legs out further.
The next painting clicked into place, showing a grand archway framed by Spanish moss. The garden beyond was blurred with sunlight, the colors bleeding together in golden and green hues that felt dreamlike.
Moon tapped her pencil against her notebook. “That arch—there’s something familiar about it. Conrad, zoom in on the scrollwork.”
As Conrad adjusted the image, intricate details emerged: delicate vines curling around the edges, tiny carvings of birds tucked within the stone, and what looked like faint impressions of chains in the moss.
“See this?” Conrad pointed to a small shape at the bottom of the arch. “That could be the crow and key, or maybe just part of the design.”
Moon jotted it down but didn’t look entirely convinced. “It’s not as obvious as the others,” she said. “But it might be there.”
The paintings shifted one after another: a marble fountain with rippling water painted so vividly it looked like it could move, a garden path flanked by iron lanterns glowing faintly, and a narrow alley lined with wooden doors, each one slightly ajar. In each piece, we hunted for the crow and key, sometimes finding it easily, sometimes struggling.
“Two paintings without any symbols,” I said, my chest tightening. “Maybe those don’t matter as much.”
“Or maybe we’re just missing it,” Moon said gently. “James hid these things so well, and we’re still figuring out what to even look for.”
When Conrad cast the final painting, the room fell into a hush. It showed a courtyard, lush with greenery and soft afternoon light. At its center was a small, round table with a single chair, painted in such stark detail that it seemed out of place in the otherwise dreamy setting. On the table sat a closed book, its edges sharp, its presence almost glaring.
“That’s odd,” Conrad said, breaking the silence. “The book feels purposeful but why wouldn’t he leave it blank?”
“Yeah, that’s true.” Moon agreed, pointing. “There’s no title, no markings.”
I swallowed hard, my voice rough when I finally spoke. “He wanted us to notice it, but we don’t know how to read into it.”
I stood abruptly, the need for air—for space—too strong to ignore. “I’ll get drinks,” I said, heading toward the kitchen. Hendrix followed, not because he wanted a drink, but because he wasn’t about to let me unravel alone.
The kitchen felt like a different world, the hum of the fridge and the faint scent of coffee returning me to normalcy. I grabbed a glass, filling it from the tap, but Hendrix’s presence behind me was impossible to ignore.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice softer than usual.
I turned to face him, the glass cool in my hand. “Yes and no.”
His brows furrowed, and he stepped closer, his hands resting on the counter behind him. “Seeing James’s work like that…it’s a lot. You don’t have to pretend it’s not.”
I let out a shaky breath, my fingers tightening around the glass. “I don’t know what to make of it. He left all these clues and they’ve just been there this whole time…it makes me feel like I failed him.”
Hendrix’s hand found mine, large and strong, as he draped it over my own to offer comfort. “You didn’t fail him, Holden. He was fighting something so much bigger than any of us could’ve imagined. Not to mention why the fuck he had a secret studio in the back of my dad’s office. I didn’t even know they knew each other.”
He continued, “Plus, you couldn’t possibly have been expected to figure out his clues without having known the paintings in there existed. But my dad…that’s a different story.”
I met his gaze, the sincerity there hitting me like a gentle wave. Without thinking, I stepped closer, my hand still in his. “Yeah, I hear you,” I replied, grateful for his understanding even if I didn’t know what to think about it all.
He smiled faintly, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.
When we returned to the living room, Conrad and Moon were cuddled tight. Moon sat in his lap, her notebook now abandoned on the coffee table, leaning forward so their foreheads almost touched as they spoke in hushed tones. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, her touch absentminded but intimate. Conrad’s expression was softer than usual, unguarded in a way I rarely saw, and it sent a sharp pang through me—a flicker of jealousy I wasn’t entirely sure was about Moon.
Hendrix nudged me lightly with his elbow, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Come on,” he said with a small grin. “We’re all in this together.”
He tugged me toward the couch and pulled me down beside him, his hand lingering on my shoulder for a moment before he leaned back. I shifted to sit properly, trying to settle the uneven rhythm in my chest as Moon glanced up at us. She smiled, her lips curving softly, her gaze landing on me like I’d done something right just by being there. It eased the ache in my chest, though I couldn’t quite name the emotion.
Someone suggested shutting off our brains for a bit, the weight of James’s paintings and the day’s discoveries still heavy in the air. “How about Ocean’s Eleven ?” Hendrix offered, glancing around at us. “We’ve seen it a thousand times. No thinking required.”
Conrad gave a faint laugh, and Moon nodded without hesitation. “Perfect,” she said, leaning back against him.
No one debated it. Hendrix flicked off the lamps, leaving the glow of the TV as the only light in the room. The house felt almost still, the weight of our exhaustion settling over us like a blanket.
When Hendrix returned, he plopped down beside me again, pulling the blanket Moon had been using earlier across both of us. The warmth of him against my side was immediate, comforting. His leg pressed lightly against mine as he leaned back, his shoulder brushing mine when he adjusted the blanket over his lap.
Moon curled more deeply into Conrad’s lap, her arms tucked by her sides as his hand slid over her smooth belly in slow, absentminded strokes. Her curls spilled over his chest, catching the soft light from the screen, and her breathing began to slow, syncing with his. Conrad’s focus lingered on her for a moment before he turned his attention to the TV, his free hand resting loosely on her hip.
I let out a long breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The exhaustion and everything we’d uncovered weighed on me, but the quiet intimacy of the room dulled the sharper edges of it. The flicker of the TV bathed the space in color, the familiar music and dialogue of the movie filling the silence with just enough noise to let us settle into it.
Hendrix leaned against me more fully, his arm brushing mine under the blanket. “We’re in this with you,” he said quietly, his voice soft but steady.
I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything. Moon shifted in Conrad’s lap, her hand slipping around his waist, and I couldn’t help the faint pang of envy that flared again. But as I looked around the room—Moon tucked against Conrad, Hendrix pressed close to me, the four of us tangled together in a way that felt too natural to question—I couldn’t deny the quiet sense of belonging that had taken root. It wasn’t perfect, but for the first time in a long while, it felt like we were exactly where we needed to be.