3. Astrid
When I got home, the house was quiet and abandoned, like no one had been there for days. I flicked on the lights and hung my wet coat on the coatrack before I kicked off my heels. The kitchen island still had the bottle of wine I’d left there and the wineglass I hadn’t finished. My phone finally had enough power to turn on, so I turned it on, expecting text messages, but there was nothing.
I set my dress to the side for the dry cleaners and washed away my makeup. It was late and I was tired, but I wanted to stay up and wait for my husband to come home. The husband I hardly saw these days…
The man who’d changed my tire was still on my mind, battling the storm like he was a mighty oak that didn’t bend in the wind. He’d told me to get off the street, and those words still bothered me.
That was probably why I couldn’t sleep, because I was worried.
I sat on the couch with my favorite bottle of wine from Barsetti Vineyards. It was from the 2016 harvest, my favorite year. I sat there alone, looking out the windows and seeing the rain hit the panes. I was on the ground floor of our three-story villa, so I couldn’t hear the rain hit the roof.
I stared until I grew sleepy and pulled a blanket over me. I didn’t remember falling asleep, but at some point, I did. And I woke up when I heard someone else in the house. My eyes opened, and I sat up, looking at the man who stood in the kitchen through my squinted eyes. He had dirty-blond hair and blue eyes, and the sleeves of his long-sleeved shirt were pushed to his elbows. He opened the cabinet and pulled out a decanter of booze before he drank straight from the bottle.
He didn’t seem to notice I was there. “Hey.”
He finished his drink then released a quiet sigh. “Didn’t think you’d be awake.”
“I was worried.”
“Why?” He left the kitchen and joined me in the sitting room, taking the seat beside me. “It’s just rain, Astrid.”
“I know, but…I know you said you had something to do tonight.”
“I always have something to do.” I’d met him at a bar years ago, and we’d hit it off right away. We’d dated for a while, and then once we were serious, he laid a bombshell on me. He wasn’t an accountant—but a hit man. I’d broken it off because I was disturbed by what I’d learned, but he wouldn’t let me go, and then we got married shortly afterward. He never shared the details of his work explicitly, and when he left the house for days at a time, he didn’t give me an explanation. I met other men he worked with and understood it was a network rather than an independent job. But I didn’t know details because I didn’t want to know details.
It was better this way.
I didn’t want to know who he killed or why he killed them, but he told me they were always bad men who’d made enemies with their wrongdoing, that he wasn’t killing innocent people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I hoped that was the truth.
So, whenever he was gone, I always worried. He told me not to text or call, to wait for him to text or call me in case it put him in a compromised position. Those stretches of time when I didn’t hear from him were always the worst.
“How was the art thing?” he asked.
“It was fine.” I should tell him about the flat tire and that man who’d helped me, but for some reason, I didn’t.
“I’m going to shower then go to bed.” He left the couch and my side and walked off.
He used to grab me all the time, yank me into him and kiss me, but lately, he seemed disinterested in physical intimacy. He was always stressed or tired or distracted. “Is something wrong?”
He halted then slowly turned back to me. “It’s four in the morning, Astrid. It’s not okay for me to be tired?”
“That’s not what I said?—”
“Why would something be wrong?” he demanded, his voice rising.
“There’s no reason?—”
“You asked me for a reason. Did you not?” He didn’t raise his voice further, but it felt like he was screaming.
“You’ve just been gone a lot.”
“And you think right now, at four in the morning, is the time to discuss it?”
He managed to turn everything around on me, making me look like the bad guy. “It’s never a good time. You’re always busy.”
“You’re being clingy, Astrid. Really fucking clingy.”
“I’m being clingy?” I asked incredulously. “Because I want to see my husband more than a couple days a week? Because I’m tired of him disappearing for days without telling me if he’s okay? Because I want to discuss when we’re going to have a family, but you shut me out every time? I would much rather be clingy than what you are—neglectful.”
His arms remained by his sides, but he stared me down with a threatening gaze, like I wasn’t his wife, but one of the men he was hired to kill. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately. Work has been busy?—”
“I don’t care what your reason is. It’s unacceptable.”
“You asked me to talk about it, and then when I speak, you interrupt me?” His voice rose a little louder. “You think that’s wise?”
“I’m just angry right now.”
“Well, I’m fucking angry too. I give you a life that women dream of. Diamonds, cars, yachts, villas in every beautiful region in this world?—”
“I married you because I wanted you, not the shit you can buy me. And instead of finding that clingy, I would hope you’d find that romantic. Because you can get any woman you want who wants your money, but I actually want you for you.”
He stared me down, his breathing elevated.
“You’re gone so much, sometimes I’m afraid…I’m afraid I’m not the only one.”
“Only one what?” he barked.
“The only woman in your bed.”
“I fuck you when I come home, do I not? I fuck you like a goddamn sailor on leave.”
“You didn’t address what I said?—”
“Because it’s fucking ridiculous. And insulting.” He turned away again. “I’m going to bed, Astrid. We can pick up this pointless conversation in the morning if you really want.” He moved to the stairs, walked to the next floor, and disappeared.
I stayed on the couch and felt my eyes water with tears I refused to release.
The next morning, we barely talked about what had happened the night before. He apologized, but it was obvious he only did it to make the conversation go away. Nothing had been fixed, exactly as he wanted. He spent the day with me, but the air between us was tense and not the least bit enjoyable.
I went to work the following day at the gallery where I worked. Once I’d finished school, I’d taken a few art classes because I wanted to be an artist. But that dream had never panned out, so I sold art rather than made my own.
My husband was a very rich man so I could stay home all day or go shopping, but since he wasn’t around often, I got lonely sitting in that big villa by myself. Florence was one of the most romantic cities on earth, but it didn’t feel romantic walking the streets alone or eating lunch in a café with no one to talk to.
It was nice to be around art, to have clients who appreciated the work of the artists we represented. Some of our paintings could be ten thousand euros—or a hundred thousand euros. We also had a lot of clients who didn’t give a shit about art but needed it on their walls to look rich or pretentious.
When I was home, I worked on my own art but never deemed it good enough to show anyone. My husband never asked about my work, so I didn’t have to hide my canvases. They stayed in my art room, a room he never entered.
My boss told me we had a new client who needed his drawing room to be touched up with artwork, so it was my job to visit the house, take all the measurements, and absorb the ambiance of the room and what would complement it. I was an art dealer, but I was also a bit of a decorator too, a job with many responsibilities.
I drove to the address, a building that was distinct and separate from the others in the heart of the city. Iron gates blocked the entrance, and Gothic statues guarded the outside, which seemed odd, considering this city had flourished during the Renaissance. After I parked my car, I tried to enter through the gate, but it was locked. I noticed the speaker and the keypad there, so I pressed the button and spoke into the intercom. “Um, hi. This is Astrid. I’m from Hemlington Art Gallery.”
A buzzer beeped, and the gate was unlocked.
I let myself inside and approached the enormous double doors, black like obsidian against the stone wall.
The doors opened before I could knock, and I was greeted by a man in a collared shirt. “Hello, Astrid. I’m George.”
I remembered him from the email. “Yes, it’s nice to meet you.”
He shook my hand then escorted me inside. The foyer of the house was beautiful, two staircases in the back, dark and masculine tones everywhere. It was very clear that a bachelor lived here all by himself.
“Let me show you the space.” George escorted me to one side of the villa, and we entered a grand study with a large fireplace, a mahogany desk, and a sitting area positioned on top of a rug. It was well decorated, but the walls were bare. “The owner of the house has been here for years but never got around to selecting his artwork. He’s a very busy man.”
I’d already sized up the room, realizing the potential of the space. “It’s a lovely room.”
“Yes, I agree.”
I took a look around, examined the open walls and took measurements, trying to decide how the layout should be. I sat down on the couch and took notes.
George continued to stand there, as if I might steal something if he left me alone.
“I have some ideas,” I said. “Do you have any idea what kind of artwork the owner likes or…?”
“He’s not picky. Just something to fit the space.”
“I would hate to put in all this work without having some idea of what he likes.” Some of my clients like paintings of naked women exclusively, some preferred floral arrangements and landscapes, and others wanted specific types of art, either religious or evocative. “Does he like images of historical significance? Does he like landscapes? Does he like portraits of people? If we could just narrow it down, that would be helpful. If this is his study, then it’s his domain, and he needs to enjoy the art in his space.”
George stood there with his hands behind his back, drawing a slow and deep breath as he deliberated with himself. He had to decide whether he wanted to bother his employer with a matter as insignificant as this.
“I’ve taken all the measurements and have a feel for the room. Maybe he could meet me at the gallery whenever he’s free. We could walk through it together, and he could give me his input. Our collection is enormous. We have everything you can think of.”
“I’ll speak with him,” George said. “Expect an email from me.”
My husband and I went to dinner that night. It wasn’t a romantic night on the town for the two of us, but a work event for him. I wasn’t sure if he had a client or some other connection because my husband wore a lot of different hats.
When we arrived, he pulled out my chair for me like he always did, and then we sat across from a man in his late fifties with a woman who looked like she could be his daughter. Beautiful in a scandalous dress, she had only one purpose, and that was to look stunning on his arm.
I was used to this sort of thing because I’d been in this world for so long, but it still surprised me that people lived this way, lived lives very different from the average person.
The wine was ordered, along with an appetizer, and then the men got down to business.
“Tyrone has been a cockblock to my business for a long time,” the man said. “We formed a partnership when we were in our early twenties, but he’s gone off the deep end in the last few years. Because of the contracts we signed, there’s nothing I can do to stop him. But at the rate he’s going, he’s going to sink the ship.”
My husband listened intently, ignoring the sound of the loud restaurant around us, his focus absolute. “Is the ship already sinking?”
The other man cocked his head slightly. “It’s starting to creak…”
“And you’ve spoken to him?”
“We’ve had our shouting matches. He’s an arrogant son-of-a-bitch.”
“If he suddenly dies, you’ll be the first suspect.”
He gave a shrug. “I don’t care at this point.”
“You don’t care about revenge?”
“He has a wife and a couple kids. I’m not afraid of them. They’ll still get their cut. But I need to take the wheel and avoid the iceberg we’re about to hit. He won’t listen to reason, so I see no other option.”
I sat there and listened to all of this, partially desensitized to these conversations. They talked about killing people like it was a simple contract with no consequences. My husband said it was real life and fairy tales didn’t exist…only nightmares.
I wasn’t sure why he brought me to these, because this wasn’t the quality time that I craved. I wasn’t the bombshell on his arm like the woman across from me, who seemed completely zoned out of the conversation. She either didn’t care that her date wanted to kill someone, or she was used to it.
“For a contract like this, it’s going to be at least thirty.”
“Thirty?” he asked in slight surprise.
“Keep in mind, that’s a cheap contract. I have clients who pay in the hundreds. It all depends on the potential fallout we have to face. I took a contract for the Skull King’s brother, and it’s created quite the headache.”
I immediately thought of the ring on the man’s hand the other night, the diamonds set into a skull shape. I’d forgotten about it right after I saw it, but it sprang back to my mind in that moment.
“The Skull King?” the man asked. “You thought that was a wise contract to take?”
“This was before he was the Skull King. Game has changed a lot since then.”
He gave a slight nod. “I accept your fee.”
“Then it looks like we have a deal.”
We arrived at our villa, and my husband left his coat on the rack before he walked inside, his muscular arms covered in thick tendons. He was tall and muscular, so his physique was well suited to his line of work. He was a handsome man, and that was the first thing I’d noticed when I’d met him. If he weren’t so handsome, I probably would have been smart and left the relationship when I’d had the chance.
But now, I was stuck.
Sometimes I liked being stuck, but I hadn’t liked it in a long time.
He poured himself a drink right away and didn’t offer me one.
I didn’t know what to say. Now, when we were alone together, it was tense and not tense with sexual tension and desire, but with awkwardness. I sat on the couch and slipped off one of my heels.
He moved to the armchair and set his glass on the coffee table. His arms were on his knees, and his hands came together. His eyes found something else to stare at for several seconds before he looked at me. “If you’re ready to start a family, I’m ready.”
I slipped off my remaining heel then stilled when I let the words sink in.
“I know your window is closing, so let’s do it.”
It took me a moment to find the words, because we’d been fighting and ignoring each other for the last few days, and then he said this. “This came out of nowhere.”
“You’ve been wanting to discuss it for a while.”
“I know, but this is the moment you choose to pursue it?”
“What’s wrong with this moment?”
“I—I don’t know. We haven’t been happy lately.”
He looked away for a moment. “That’s how marriage is. It has its highs and its lows. It’ll come back.”
I kept myself busy with work, but I’d rather keep myself busy with my children, growing a family and building a legacy. But once it was placed on a pedestal before me, I didn’t want it. “I-I don’t know.”
His eyes found mine, a hint of surprise there. “What don’t you know?”
“Are you going to leave the business?”
He answered without hesitation. “No.”
“Well, I don’t see how that will work.”
“I disagree.”
“You could be killed?—”
“I’ve been doing this a long time, Astrid. No one is a match for me.”
“What if someone comes after us?—”
“We’ve been together for three years. Has anyone come after you?”
I blinked several times. “No.”
“Because no one is dumb enough to fuck with me.” Now, his voice deepened, growing angry at my provocation. “I would never let anything happen to you or our children. You can leave the gallery and raise them.”
“And where are you in all of this?”
“I’ll be around…when I’m around.”
“Do you actually want to have a family, or do you just want me to raise your children?”
He stared at me without blinking, without taking a breath. “I want to have a family. But let’s be honest here. I provide—and you nurture. I want to spend time with my children, but you’re going to be the primary caregiver. I won’t insult you by promising to be there all the time when I know I won’t be.”
It angered me, but I couldn’t feel angry when he was honest with me. As far as I could tell, he’d never lied to me. And even though he was harsh sometimes, I treasured that honesty. “I always imagined we would do this after you retired.”
“I’m too young to retire. And I don’t want to be an old dad.”
“I don’t know if I could bring a child into our lives in good conscience, knowing what you do.”
“How would you feel if I said I didn’t want to have a child with you because you’re a whore or a stripper?” he snapped. “No one should be ashamed of how they earn a living—and I won’t be.”
“Being a hit man and an erotic dancer are not comparable.”
“I’m not going to change my stance on this. If you want to have children, this is how we’re having them.” He grabbed the glass and finished it off before he stood up. “I need to do a few things in my office before bed.” He walked up the stairs, and then his steps disappeared when he reached the next landing.
I sat there alone…like I always did.
I sat down at my desk and opened my emails.
I read the message from George. Mr. Bianchi will be there at three this afternoon. This will be a private viewing, so make sure your gallery is vacant for his arrival. Take care, George.
It was a bit presumptuous and arrogant, but I was used to these types of clients. But to assume I would clear my schedule for a man I’d never met—that was over-the-top. He was probably an old, insufferable man who had turned into a jackass in old age because he had no one to keep him in check anymore. His wife had left him, taking half his money when she couldn’t stand him anymore.
Thankfully, all my appointments were in the morning and my schedule was clear in the afternoon, so it was easy to accommodate the diva-like request. I made sure there was champagne and a plate of appetizers so I could greet him like the queen that he was.
I sat behind my desk and realized it was fifteen minutes after three and the guy hadn’t shown up yet.
Typical.
My eyes were on the floor-to-ceiling windows at the front of our gallery, and that was when I saw a man in a gray t-shirt that fit snugly around his thick arms step into my view. He wore black jeans and boots, and he spoke on the phone, stopping in front of me to finish the conversation.
My eyes moved to his tight ass in those jeans.
The sex with my husband used to be good, but it’d become irregular and obligatory in the last six months. It never scratched the itch that I had. It seemed like he didn’t care whether I came or not, like his mind was so preoccupied that he just wanted to get the deed done so he could go to sleep or finish up something in his office.
So it was hard not to notice this hunk of a man in front of the window.
He finished his phone call and shoved the device into his pocket—and that was when I noticed it.
The skull ring on his left hand.
My heart gave an enormous lurch, and my back muscles spasmed like I was about to fall over in my chair.
He turned the corner and approached the double glass doors before he walked inside, the same man I’d seen in the rain, six-foot-something of pure masculinity and raw sexiness. He had the shadow on his jawline, the dark eyes straight from the underworld, the muscles that had as much horsepower as a race car.
His shirt didn’t stick to his hard chest like it had in the rain, but I remembered the visual quite well. My eyes quickly roamed over his body and appreciated every inch because he was god’s gift to women…and men.
A slightly annoyed look was in his eyes, like he didn’t want to spend his time picking out art. But then his eyes found mine, and a slow look of recognition appeared there. His dark eyes hardened at the realization, but he didn’t say a word.
I left the desk and walked up to him, my heels wobbling left and right because I forgot how to walk in them. Even with the four extra inches of height they provided, the man still towered over me like the Eiffel Tower over the old buildings in Paris. I stood directly before him now, but I still hadn’t found the words to greet him. Everything in me died at the sight of him, like I’d completely forgotten how to be human.
He didn’t say anything either, taking in my appearance as if trying to memorize it.
My mouth was dry, and my palms were slick with sweat. “Small world, huh?”
He didn’t speak, and his silence countered my icebreaker. His eyes had been almost black the last time I saw him, but now that it was daylight, they were brown like a hot cup of coffee. There was so much confidence in his stare, like he thrived on others’ discomfort. “I hope you’ve become a better driver since.”
I gave a slow nod. “It’s not my fault there was a pile of shrapnel in the road?—”
“It’s your fault you didn’t see it,” he said. “We can’t control what happens to us, but we can control what we happen to.” He stepped away to the gallery opening as if the matter had been settled.
I watched him pass, seeing the way the muscles of his incredible physique shifted and moved underneath his clothing.
“Let’s get this over with.”
I grabbed my pen and notebook and followed him into the other room, seeing him walk through the gallery and barely glance at the Tuscan landscapes.
“So you’re nice enough to pull over and change a lady’s tire in the rain, but then you’re an insufferable asshole the rest of the time?”
He slowly turned his head to look at me, a slight look of surprise on his face.
“I’m not going to put up with your attitude just because you’re a client. Helping someone choose their artwork for their space is a very intimate task, and if you’re going to be a dick to me, then this isn’t going to work.”
His hard expression didn’t change, but he absorbed my gaze like I was one of the paintings on the wall.
I held his stare and didn’t back down, waiting for him to blow up and scream at me.
But the corner of his mouth rose in a subtle smile. “Fair enough.”
He was so hot when he looked angry, but that smile made him even hotter. It took me a second to snap out of it. “I get the impression you don’t care for the landscapes?—”
“I didn’t change your tire to be nice.” He cut me off like I hadn’t spoken. “I don’t do nice. I did it to get your ass off the street, as I already said.” He stepped away and moved down the wall of paintings, snapping back into his foul mood just like that.
I followed him. “Why did you want me off the street?”
He walked past more landscapes and barely looked at them.
I suspected I wouldn’t receive an answer. “What are you interested in? I have historical pieces. I have nude pieces. Religious stuff. I also have some collector’s pieces created during the Renaissance.”
“Nude pieces?” he asked.
“Portraits of naked men and women. They tend to be a favorite of most of my clients.”
“I’m in my study to work, not be distracted.”
“Alright, then let’s look at the historical pieces.” Our galleries were separated into sections, the lighting different to match the moods of the artwork. I showed him the displays of the Greek ships as they sailed on Troy, Alexander the Great in the battle of Persia, Mussolini minutes before he was executed.
He stopped and stared at those for a long time, taking in the artwork with a curious eye. His arms crossed over his chest, and he stared at the image of Mussolini with the most interest. “He was my great-grandfather.”
“Mussolini?” I asked in surprise.
He nodded without taking his eyes off the painting. “His daughter Edda was my grandmother, although I don’t remember her. My family has a bloody history, and it only got worse as the line went on.”
Dictatorship had clearly been passed through his bloodline, judging by the way he spoke and treated others. “Do you like the painting?”
“No.” He stepped away. “I don’t want my ancestor’s final moments haunting me in my study.” He went past the other artwork, looking at history told by artistic historians. These weren’t paintings created during the time the events took place, but modern painters who’d taken a stab at a historical narrative.
I was quiet as I watched him look at all the paintings, taking them in with interest. “Are any of these suitable for you?”
“I respect the work, but no, they aren’t suitable.”
For a man who wanted artwork on his walls, he didn’t seem to care that much for it. “Then let’s check out the other exhibits.” I took him to the others we had. It was no surprise that he didn’t care for the watercolor section full of lilies and ponds. He didn’t like the religious section either and even said, “I don’t believe in that bullshit.”
At some point, we ran out of artwork. “Well, I don’t have anything else to show you. I can make us an appointment with our other galleries in the city?—”
“What’s downstairs?” He noticed the stairs that led to the basement.
“Oh.” It was an unusual collection of paintings, a section I didn’t bother to show most people because they are so disturbing. “It’s hard to describe. They don’t really fit into any category. They’re sinister, dark, disturbing…” I wasn’t even sure why we kept them.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m all of those things. Lead the way.”
I looked into his face, seeing a handsome man with dark hair and eyes, but none of the other things he claimed. His words always had a bite, but he’d still allowed himself to be soaked to the bone so he could help me leave whatever danger he’d enigmatically warned me about.
“Sure.” I went down the stairs and flicked on the art lights. We didn’t bother to turn them on because so few people were interested in this collection. “Most of these paintings are hundreds of years old. The artists are lesser known. They depict some of the crueler things in society, the plague, demons, torture…things of that nature.”
He stepped into the room and looked at the first painting. He didn’t just look at it, but he stared without a hint of uncertainty, facing the horror head on. It was a demonic creature in a darkly lit room, its grotesque features impossible to describe. It occupied a cabin in the woods…and appeared to eat the corpse of a faceless human as it hung upside down.
“It’s a changeling,” I explained. “It’s a supernatural being who replaces someone who’s been taken by the devil or a demon or a monster. It resembles a human when it’s been spotted and shows its true form in solitude.”
He continued to stare at it.
I expected him to reject these paintings like he had all the others, even though he seemed just as interested in their evocativeness.
“I want this one.”
I almost did a double take as I looked at the side of his face. It wasn’t my place to judge another’s opinion about art, but I’d never had anyone ever want these paintings on their wall, never heard of anyone wanting to look at them more than once.
He stepped away and looked at the next one, dark monsters creeping out of the forest and surrounding a lone traveler by a campfire. A sword lay on the ground near the campfire, but the man didn’t reach for it, like he knew there was no escape. “And this one.”
I wrote it down and kept my judgment to myself.
He looked at a few others and wanted them too. But then he came back to the changeling and continued his stare again, because the first pass hadn’t been long enough.
“What do you like about this one?”
His arms were crossed over his chest as he stared, his head cocked slightly. “Do you ever feel that way?”
“What way?” I asked quietly.
“Like you died a long time ago, and now there’s this other version of you that lingers…a changeling.” His stare lasted a few seconds longer before he turned to look at me directly, gazing at me with the same interest he showed the painting.
I felt an invisible spotlight on my face. Felt like another painting he wanted on his wall. I swallowed, the intensity of his stare like fire from the surface of the sun.
“Tell me your name.”
For a brief moment, I forgot what it was. “Astrid.”
He continued his stare.
“Yours?” I had his last name, but not his first.
“Theo.”
My eyes dropped to his hand, seeing the enormous rock on his finger, a piece of jewelry that was probably worth more than all the paintings in this gallery. It was so striking and potent, there was no way people didn’t notice it—and that was the way he wanted it. “That’s an interesting ring.”
He didn’t look down at his left hand. Didn’t seem to care about the comment I made or feel pressured to address the questions I never asked.
“I’ll deliver your paintings and arrange for them to be hung on your wall.” The energy that emitted from him was just as substantial as the energy from all these paintings, their ability to evoke a range of emotions with just the color of their paints. “I can probably get this done tomorrow?—”
“Let’s have dinner.” He spoke over me like he hadn’t been listening to a word I said, just watched my lips move while nothing came out. “I know a good place around the corner.”
“Um…” He caught me off guard, and I wasn’t sure if that invitation was personal or business. Whether it was business or not, he’d selected his paintings, so there was no reason for us to continue a conversation. But I wanted to say yes…and that made me writhe in both disappointment and gut-wrenching guilt. “I’m married.”
His expression didn’t change, so he either had a great poker face or he really felt no disappointment at my rejection. “You don’t wear a wedding ring.”
My fingers automatically felt my left hand where my naked finger sat. “I was in a hurry this morning and forgot it.”
Those dark eyes continued to pierce me with judgment. “If I had a wife, I’d make sure she’d never forget to wear hers.” He turned away from me and the painting and headed back to the stairs, his muscular back filling out his shirt in every sexy way.
I watched him go, a sharp pain in my chest, a wave of guilt coupled with inexplicable longing. Marrying my husband had been a foolish decision, but I had been wildly in love. But that love had fallen apart like a house that descended into ruin from a lack of maintenance. First, the pipes had turned to rust, then the walls filled with mold, the roof cracked in a storm…and then it came tumbling down into a pile of rubble that no one wanted to clear away.
I looked at the painting again, and for just a second, I saw myself standing there, eating the corpse of a victim…a changeling.