Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Mandy
When I arrive at Seymour’s home, my tires crunch over the gravel as I swerve into a crooked parking job. The car rocks to a stop, engine ticking in the silence. His car sits in the driveway, a sight that sends relief flooding through me like a wave.
The porch light isn’t on, unusual for Seymour who’s meticulous about such things. Maybe he’s sick with the flu and his phone died. He slept through everything and forgot to text.
That’s what I want to believe, but my racing pulse tells a different story. Because sleeping through important events doesn’t sound like Seymour at all.
The evening air holds a hint of autumn chill as I rush up his front steps. Any second now, I expect to see his tall frame appear in a window, waiting for me.
We can talk this through. He can explain his silence.
Maybe we can set some new rules for dating, like checking in with each other daily.
I rap my knuckles hard against the solid wood door. “Seymour?” My voice comes out higher than usual, tight with worry. I knock again, the sound echoing in the quiet neighborhood.
Worth a shot—I try the handle. It turns smoothly under my grip, no resistance.
Ice trickles down my spine as I push the door open. “Seymour?”
The foyer stretches before me, dark and still. Too still. The kind of stillness that means something’s wrong.
You know that crawling sensation when you can tell someone’s been in your space? It prickles across my skin now, and this isn’t even my house.
The dining room catches my eye first. A chair sits askew, pushed out at an odd angle. Did someone knock it aside in a struggle, or did Seymour just forget to straighten it? Only a few lights are on. Had he left in a rush? Or was he still here somewhere?
My heart thunders in my chest as I move through the downstairs rooms, calling his name repeatedly. The sound bounces off bare walls in the pristine living room.
It’s almost sterile in its tidiness, like a room in a museum rather than a lived-in space. The dining room and kitchen yield nothing but perfect order and empty silence.
Then I find what must be his study. Here, finally, are signs of life. Papers scattered across a heavy wooden desk, a half-empty coffee mug leaving a ring on a coaster, a suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. The air still holds the ghost of his cologne.
My attention snaps to the corner where flat wooden crates are stacked against the wall.
Shipping crates for paintings. I kneel beside one that’s been opened, fingers trembling slightly as I examine the contents.
This must be his collection. And what a collection it is.
I recognize a Yayoi Kusama piece with its distinctive polka-dotted pumpkins.
Is this an original or a print? The quality looks remarkable.
I don’t think Seymour realizes what he has here. But then my brain makes a chilling connection. All the murdered artists had impressive collections. The thought grips me like a physical force, squeezing until I can barely draw breath.
What if these paintings have put Seymour in real danger?
Diana’s words echo in my mind. How the artists were warned, given chances to surrender stolen art. They chose not to.
In three quick strides, I’m at his desk, rifling through the scattered papers with shaking hands.
There—a small note in stark capital letters:
YOU HAVE SOMETHING THAT DOESN’T BELONG TO YOU.
My stomach drops. “Oh, no.”
Why didn’t he tell anyone about this threat?
Harris would know what to do. But I don’t have my phone, and I don’t have his number anyway. There’s no time.
I race through the house, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors. Each doorway brings fresh dread. Will this be the room where I find him?
The bathroom—empty. Guest room—untouched. My breath comes in short gasps as I climb the stairs, gripping the smooth banister.
I leave his bedroom for last, steeling myself before pushing open the heavy door. The sight that greets me draws an instant, burning rush of tears.
It’s Blackbeard.
The painting I haven’t seen in years hangs prominently on his wall, the pirate’s weather-worn face caught in eternal contemplation against a stormy sky. My brush strokes, my vision, preserved here in Seymour’s private space. Was this part of the collection he inherited? Does he even know it’s mine?
I don’t think so. He would have mentioned it.
A new thought creeps in, unwelcome but impossible to ignore. It starts as a whisper, then grows louder until I can’t deny its possibility.
What if...no. But...
I have to consider it. Todd’s threats echo in my memory. He wants any evidence of my paintings eliminated. He knows Blackbeard is out there somewhere. Could he have traced it to Seymour?
Maybe that threatening note wasn’t from Diana or Jack at all. Maybe it was from Todd.
The Todd I knew years ago would never have done something so sinister, but he had no problem stealing my concept and building his fame on it. Seymour was right. Todd knew exactly what he was doing. And at the failed dinner date, I saw an ugliness in Todd I’d never witnessed before.
Facts don’t lie. Seymour would never willingly miss this event. Something is very wrong.
I hurry back downstairs, my footsteps thundering on the steps. His car is here, but he’s not. Either he’s tucked away at some bar with Harris, or...
Todd’s address surfaces in my memory. He spends most of his time in the city now, but he kept his house here.
I burst out the front door, the cool night air hitting my flushed face.
My hands shake as I fumble with my car keys, hoping desperately that I’m wrong about all of this.
But that creeping dread follows me as I slide behind the wheel.
The drive to Todd’s takes ten minutes that feel like ten hours.
Finally, I turn onto his street. The houses here are set far apart, screened by tall pines. Todd’s modernist home emerges from the darkness, all sharp angles and glass walls. His car isn’t in the circular driveway. He’s still at the gallery event.
I park and rush to the front door, my shoes crunching on the gravel path. I don’t even bother checking if it’s locked. I know where he keeps the spare key. An old habit from when we were together. There’s a small magnetic key holder under the porch railing.
“I’m coming,” I call out, though I’m not sure if I’m trying to reassure myself or Seymour—if he’s even here.
The key slides into the lock. I push the door open, heart pounding. “Seymour!” My voice rings through the house, bouncing off the high ceilings.
A muffled grunt answers from the next room.
I run toward the sound, my legs nearly giving out when I see him.
Seymour.
He’s tied to one of Todd’s expensive dining chairs, duct tape binding his ankles to the legs and rope around his wrists. His usually pristine shirt is wrinkled and partially untucked, dark hair falling across his forehead.
A sob breaks free as relief floods through me. He’s alive.
I rush to him, my hands trembling as I touch his face, his hair, needing to confirm he’s real. His eyes meet mine, wide with warning. I pull the gag from his mouth.
“I can’t believe this...I’m so sorry...so sorry.” The words tumble out as I work at the knots binding his wrists. The rope is rough under my fingers, tied too tight.
“Mandy,” he says, voice hoarse. “You have to leave. Get out of here.” Then barely a whisper: “He’s here.”
The air seems to thicken. My hands freeze on the ropes.
I should run. Every instinct screams for me to flee. Instead, I look directly into Seymour’s eyes. “I’m not leaving without you.”
“He’s lost it,” Seymour hisses through clenched teeth. “Please, leave.”
A floorboard creaks behind me. The hair on my neck rises seconds before Todd speaks.
“Great, Mandy. Maybe you can help me.”
I turn slowly. Todd leans against the doorframe, casual as if this were a dinner party. His suit jacket is gone, sleeves rolled up, showing the tattoo on his forearm. The one he got when his first gallery show sold out. His familiar smirk, once charming, now makes my skin crawl.
“Maybe you can help me with this big lug.”
“How is that?” I ask, standing tall behind Seymour’s chair, wishing I could keep working on the knots without being seen.
“You’re smarter than that, Mandy. You should know what I want.”
I keep my face carefully blank, though my heart races.
He wants to erase every trace of me from his work.
That’s impossible. He can buy back all my paintings.
He can threaten me into silence about the ones I have—or used to have.
But I’m still there in every brushstroke, even if his name is on the canvas.
“I just want the Blackbeard painting. I know he has it.” Todd’s gaze fixes on me, his eyes narrowing with a predatory focus.
“This is really your fault. You know that, right Mandy?” He waves his hand dismissively, an artist’s hand that once created beauty but now holds threats.
“I just want Blackbeard, now that the other loose ends have been dealt with, and then I’ll be on my merry way. ”
My muscles tense. I step to Seymour’s side, resting my hand on his shoulder. A silent signal for him to let me handle this. My fingers register the warmth of him, solid and alive.
I’ve stayed quiet about Todd’s theft for years. Let the hurt fester while he climbed to fame using my vision. I almost gave up art entirely because of him. I truly thought I was finished, a one-and-done artist. But that midnight swim with Seymour changed everything.
That moment floating in the cool water, staring up at the vast night sky—inspiration struck like lightning.
Maybe inspiration had been all around me these past years. I just hadn’t been ready to see it, too afraid to truly paint again. I gave Todd so much power over my art and my heart. Made excuses for him. Told myself he didn’t know what he was doing, that he thought we were a team.
Not anymore.
I study the man before me, barely recognizing him. Once, I thought we’d share a lifetime. Marriage. Art. Supporting each other through the lean times and celebrating the victories together. Maybe he even believed that himself at first, but fame and money revealed his true nature.
This isn’t the man I fell for.
And I’ve never truly confronted him about any of it.
I’m a talented artist, and it’s time to reclaim what’s mine. Those Picasso-style paintings I clung to were chains binding me to the past, keeping me from moving forward.
Now they’re nothing but ash and memory.
I feel lightness spreading through me, dizzying in its intensity.
I’m free.
Free to paint my night skies. They may be ash too, but they live in my heart. Always will. Perhaps I can create something even better. This new inspiration feels permanent, unshakeable.
“Why so paranoid, Todd?” My voice quavers despite my effort to steady it. “Afraid someone will realize my original paintings are better than yours? Afraid they’ll wonder why your earlier work shows more talent?”
He growls, a sound more animal than human. I’ve struck a nerve. Time to press harder.
“You know,” I continue, “both our lives changed when you stole my ideas.”
“I didn’t steal your ideas. We were a team—” His face flushes dark red.
“Oh, cut the crap. There was no team. That was just how you justified it to yourself. Maybe you even believed it then. But here’s the truth: if you hadn’t gotten famous so quickly, you would have had to develop your skills.
Your technique. You had real potential as a painter.
Eventually, you would have found your own ideas.
You didn’t need to steal mine.” I draw a deep breath, the truth of my next words hitting me fully.
“You cheated yourself. In the long run, you hurt yourself more than you hurt me.”
The words hang in the air between us. I never thought I’d say them, but they’re true. His instant fame stunted his growth as an artist. I hadn’t realized how much it bothered him that I was more advanced. Maybe he never had the patience for the countless hours at the easel that mastery requires.
“I just want Blackbeard,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. The charm has completely fallen away, leaving something raw and ugly exposed.
Just Blackbeard?
His earlier words come back to me. My heart constricts painfully. No. He wouldn’t. I didn’t think he could hurt me more than he already had.
He said something about loose ends being dealt with.
“Todd,” I ask, my mouth dry, “what did you mean about loose ends being dealt with?”