Chapter 18 #2
I follow his lead, settling onto my back.
The clouds drift overhead, white and fluffy against the blue sky.
My thoughts drift to my new paintings waiting in the shed, my secret joy.
Each one represents a breakthrough, a step toward something uniquely mine.
The possibility of where this new direction might lead fills me with quiet excitement.
Seymour reaches for my hand, his fingers sliding between mine with gentle intimacy.
His thumb traces slow circles on my skin, sending tingles up my arm.
The air between us feels charged, alive with possibility.
I can sense his warmth even without looking at him, like there’s an invisible thread pulling us together.
“Biggest fears,” he says, his voice taking on a serious edge that breaks through our comfortable mood.
The question hits closer to home than I’d like.
The answer springs immediately to mind. It’s been my constant companion for five years, the reason I’ve stuck to safe, sellable landscapes.
My heart picks up speed, and I swallow hard against the sudden tightness in my throat.
I want to tell him everything, but the words stick.
He squeezes my hand, his grip reassuring.
“I’ll start.” He takes a deep breath, and I hear the slight catch in it that tells me this isn’t easy for him.
His usual smooth confidence wavers. “My biggest fear, or I should say what makes me stack more bricks around my heart, is the fear that when people care about me, it’s just for the money. ”
The vulnerability in his admission makes my chest ache. I understand his fear more than he knows. Even now, I wonder if he’s questioning whether I like him because he’s helping the gallery or because of who he truly is.
I know the answer to that. I like the sweet smile that appears when he thinks no one’s watching.
I like how he cares about people, whether it’s a struggling artist or a lonely kid.
I like that he wants to use his wealth to make real changes instead of collecting status symbols.
I like his striking green eyes, the perpetual mess of his black hair, the strong line of his jaw. I love all of it.
Love?
The realization helps me find the courage to answer his challenge.
“Being vulnerable,” I say softly, thinking of paintings hidden away that reveal too much of my soul.
As in showing someone paintings that reveal more about me.
Fear they’ll use it and abuse it. I understand Seymour Black more than he realizes.
He doesn’t push for more details, and I don’t elaborate. It’s like we’re both standing at the edge of something deeper, wondering if we’re ready to fall further than we already have. If we’re ready to trust completely.
Yes, the day ends with plenty of kissing and handholding, but also with unspoken words hovering between us.
This week has been like a pause in time, a bubble where I could pretend there wasn’t a murder investigation hanging over our heads, waiting to shatter our peace. Where I could push aside thoughts of the coming event that looms larger every day.
I sense there’s more to his story, just as there is to mine.
That he’s holding some of the hurt back, but I am too.
There never seems to be a right time to tell him about Todd, because there’s more to it than just what he stole from me.
It’s that Todd showing his work at the gallery as Silvano could be exactly what the gallery needs to stay in existence.
The news hits like a thunderbolt.
Yup. It’s been declared murder.
Darren and Eugene were poisoned. Both of them murdered.
Scott calls me first, his voice tight with concern. He tells me that within minutes of the news breaking, Seymour hired him to investigate the cases independently of the police. That Seymour demanded an immediate meeting with all of us to review the facts and develop a strategy.
My mind flashes back to Officer Pete’s questioning, to the way his casual questions carried accusations just beneath the surface. To how he not-so-subtly suggested I had motive. I need all the support I can get.
We gather at the gallery after hours, the familiar space feeling different in the growing shadows of evening.
Seymour arrives with Harris, his presence commanding as always, but his eyes seek me out immediately.
He takes the seat next to me, his hand finding its way to my back, warm and steady.
The gesture says more than words could—that he’s here, that he’ll do whatever it takes to make this right. That I’m not alone.
Scott walks in and his detective’s eyes miss nothing. His gaze moves from me to Seymour, noting the casual way we sit together, the protective angle of Seymour’s body toward mine. His eyebrow lifts in silent judgment, but honestly? I don’t care. He’s my brother, not my keeper.
I invited Barrie because she’s brilliant at research, and she’s been through something similar before. She understands what I’m facing. Plus, she has a way of seeing connections others miss.
Harris clears his throat and begins. “First, I don’t advise anyone to cooperate with the police if they want to question you. Call me immediately. Don’t even sit in a room alone with them without me present.”
The warning is clearly meant for me and Seymour. My stomach twists as I think about the lie I told. That question echoes in my mind: What happens when they find out?
“Why?” Scott asks, his expression puzzled but professional. “The police aren’t the bad guys here.”
“Given the line of questioning they took with Mandy the first time, I’d say it’s completely reasonable.” Harris’s tone carries years of legal experience and barely contained irritation.
Scott sits straighter, his protective big brother instincts clearly triggered. “What are you talking about?” He turns to me, concern etched on his features. “Mandy?”
I offer him what I hope is a reassuring smile, though guilt nags at me for not telling him sooner. “The next morning, they brought me down to the station and kinda, sorta implied I had motive. Something about artist envy.”
“What?” Barrie’s voice rises sharply. She leans forward, her face flushed with indignation. “That’s absolutely ridiculous. Good thing Scott’s here.” She glances around the room. “Harris, too. Um, and Seymour.”
“Fine.” Scott shifts in his chair and pulls out a pad of paper. “But I promise, they will want to talk to both of you again. Probably soon.” His pen hovers over the paper. “Who do we have for suspects? Let’s start there.”
The silence that follows feels heavy, oppressive.
I can feel words building inside me, pressing against my chest. No one can help if they don’t know the truth.
But the truth feels dangerous, exposed. I grasp for something else, anything else.
“Well, Stephen, the board member, wants to purchase the gallery and turn it into a restaurant.”
“That doesn’t seem like motive for murder,” Barrie says as she retrieves a small notebook from her oversized purse. The familiar sound of pages turning fills the quiet room.
“Neither does artist envy,” Seymour adds, his hand pressing slightly firmer against my back.
“Can we find out more about the lives of the artists?” Scott’s detective mind is clearly working. “Did they have enemies? Did they have family nearby?”
Barrie’s hand shoots up like an eager student. “I’m on it. I’ll track down that information.”
Scott nods, jotting notes. “Good.” His eyes move between me and Seymour.
“You two are in the best position to talk to the other board members. Subtly ask if they know anything more about these artists. Talk to Stephen about his plans. Maybe we’ll find something that makes sense, because so far, I’m not seeing anything that sticks out as a reason to kill these guys. ”
The pressure of unspoken words becomes unbearable. I can sense the meeting drawing to a close, feel the moment slipping away. My heart pounds against my ribs, and my palms grow damp. Seymour must feel me tense because his hand stills on my back.
Before I can think better of it, I blurt out the words that have been haunting me:
“I lied to the cops.”
The room goes completely still. Even the usual creaks and settling sounds of the old gallery building seem to hold their breath. Five pairs of eyes turn to me, and in that moment, I realize there’s no going back.