Paint Me Like Your Dead Girls

Chapter One

ONE

I didn’t sign up for this.

I trail behind Dad and Kim (who I flat out refuse to call my stepmom, especially when they’ve been married for less than forty-eight hours) and slow down as much as possible, while keeping them in sight.

I’ve barely had a moment to myself since I was dropped me off in the countryside for their wedding on Thursday.

Between a manor house full of guests, my bridesmaid duties (which mostly consisted of wrangling two tiny flower girls) and the ceremony on Friday, I’m exhausted.

Yesterday was supposed to be chilled, but by the time the guests actually left the house, the sun had gone down.

Honestly, there’s nothing worse than being left alone with soppy newlyweds the day after their wedding.

Extra disgusting when one of them is your dad.

Thankfully, we made the two-hour drive back to Blackwood early this morning, and I was allowed approximately fifty-six minutes to make myself at home before I was herded out again just before ten a.m. I was hoping for a nap, but instead we’re out for a morning walk to an estate sale, whatever that is.

I check my phone to see if there’s any update from my mom.

I haven’t had a proper chat with her or my little brother Ethan yet, because they flew to Sydney on Friday.

I begged to go with them—my stepdad Darren has been showing me photos of where he grew up for years, and they’re headed there because his mom needs major surgery—but they decided that me being at Dad’s wedding was more important.

I still don’t know if I agree with them.

I drag my feet over the winding cobbled streets and think about all the times I walked around Blackwood as a kid, back when Dad taught art history at the university the first time around and me and Mom lived here too, one not-so-happy family.

It’s probably been six years since I last visited, and I get a little thrill of satisfaction that it’s still as old-fashioned and magical as I remember.

I don’t recognize everything, though, and I have to admit I might lose my bearings if I don’t keep up, so I let out a loud and somewhat obnoxious sigh and start to walk a little faster.

As tempting as it is to get lost down a dark alleyway, I don’t want to do anything that makes Dad and Kim regret letting me house-sit while they jet off on their honeymoon.

I just need to get through the rest of today and then tomorrow they leave for the Maldives and Izzy arrives.

Ten whole days living with my best friend.

I can’t wait.

“Almost there, Fliss!” Dad says cheerfully, turning around to make sure I am actually following them. His cheeks are rosy from the warm August morning as he grins at me.

Kim copies him, smiling in that insipid way that she does.

Okay, fine, it’s not insipid. Kim is perfectly nice; I just don’t know her very well.

After the divorce, Dad left Blackwood to teach in Paris, where he was offered his dream job at the Sorbonne University and he started his other life, without me.

The one I never had any say in. It’s part of the reason I detest feelings—if I gave in to every complicated feeling I ever had about my parents’ divorce or Dad’s absence, I’d be a mess.

Anyway, Kim was living over there too and they’ve only been dating for eighteen months, so the whole moving-back-to-Blackwood-and-getting-married thing happened very quickly.

“There’s a cute little vegan café around the corner from the estate sale. I’ll treat you both to a lavender latte when we’re done,” Kim offers.

“Great,” I reply, allowing a touch of sarcasm to tinge the word. I feel a pang of regret as Kim’s smile wavers slightly. “That sounds lovely,” I add, catching Dad’s eye and making sure I don’t sound like the evil stepdaughter. How are people mean? It’s draining.

I stay behind them, watching as Kim casually links arms with my dad and rests her blond head on his shoulder for a second as they walk.

Dad is just over six foot, and she’s shorter than him, but not by much.

She dresses in a relaxed 1950s style, all red lipstick and soft flared skirts—the total opposite of my business casual mom.

Dad’s style has never really changed over the years and remains mostly casual, like the black jeans and T-shirt he’s wearing today, but Kim did manage to make him wear a nice suit for the wedding.

I inherited his rosy cheeks and brown curls, though his are cut short and starting to gray at the temples, while mine run wild.

We turn a corner and arrive at the quad in the center of Blackwood University, which consists of a huge courtyard filled with a lush green.

It’s surrounded by old buildings that rival the architecture at Oxford or Cambridge.

The main attraction, the Clarendon Building, dominates one entire side of the square, all Gothic spires and soaring turrets.

This is the central hub, where I remember students gathering on sunny days.

I used to dream of being one of them. A tingle of excitement hits me as I remember that it’s not long until I get to apply.

“That’s the Heywood Gallery, Fliss,” Dad says, directing my attention to a newer building that I’m not familiar with.

It’s sleek and modern, with a glass facade that reflects the morning sunlight, but it somehow blends into its surroundings.

“You should pop in while you’re here. We have some amazing pieces on display.

Still working on the new exhibition for September, though, so the whole top floor is closed off.

But I’m sure I can ask someone to give you a sneak peek, if you want? ”

“Sure,” I say, with very little intention of following through. Modern art isn’t really my thing, much to Dad’s disappointment. “So you’re working at the gallery? I thought you were teaching?”

“It’s a split role. The university owns the gallery, so I’ll be teaching art history to the undergrads three days a week and then working with the postgrads at the gallery the other two, helping them curate the exhibitions.

It’s half of the reason why I”—he pauses and smiles at his new wife—“why we chose to move back.”

“Oh, Mr. Keller.” Kim simpers at him as I try not to vomit in my mouth. There was a lot of Mr. and Mrs. Keller talk yesterday, and it doesn’t take much to get them started.

“So what’s the other half?” We walk around the wide expanse of lawn and head down another cobbled street.

“You, Fliss,” Dad says, beckoning us round a corner. “I miss you. Plus, I know how much you want to apply to Blackwood. If you get in, and I know you will, we’ll get to spend more time together. Make up for me working away so much.”

“Thanks,” I say, not sure how I feel about that, because I never knew he cared about being away from me. I leave the word hanging and focus on our surroundings instead. Dad and I aren’t known for our deep conversations.

Most of the campus has barely changed, and I recognize the row of tall, narrow, terraced houses carved from the golden stone that is ubiquitous around town.

This is where a lot of the professors live, though Dad had to give up our old house after the divorce and Mom and I moved an hour north.

Now that he’s back and doesn’t have a kid in tow, he’s been shoved into a much less grand two-bed apartment on the outskirts of town.

Though with Blackwood being as small as it is, the outskirts are barely more than a ten-minute walk from here.

I look wistfully at number nine, our old house, as we walk past it.

I have nice memories there, before Mom and Dad started arguing all the time.

We approach a house toward the end of the row, where an elderly white man with an impressive mustache and a stack of leaflets is standing guard.

“Good morning,” he booms as we climb the steps to the front door.

He’s in a black three-piece suit and doesn’t seem to be remotely bothered by the August heat.

“Feel free to browse inside.” Kim takes a leaflet, but he addresses my dad, and I get the impression he is completely disregarding her.

He doesn’t even look at me. “Most of the listings are in here, but please find me directly if you would like to discuss anything. My name is George.”

“Thank you, George,” Kim says pointedly so George is forced to look at her. I can’t help but smirk, and it makes me warm to her even more. Yay for micro-feminisms.

We enter the long hallway, and I pause as a dozen memories hit me at once.

The house is identical in layout to the one I grew up in—stairs on the left, living room and kitchen to the right.

My bedroom was the one right at the top of the stairs—a box that was tiny but had a low window ledge I could perch on.

I loved looking out that window at all the students running between classes.

You can tell a lot about people when they don’t think anyone is watching them.

“You coming, Fliss?” Dad says it gently, and I know he’s reminded of our old house too. I decide not to be the one to mention it and change the subject instead.

“Yeah. What is an estate sale, anyway?” I ask, following them through the house.

“Well, when someone…dies”—Dad chooses his words carefully—“and there is no surviving family—”

“Or will,” Kim chimes in, waving the leaflet to fan her face as we cross the threshold into the living room.

“Or will,” Dad agrees, “then sometimes they sell off belongings, also known as the estate. It’s just a fancy name for a rummage sale, I suppose. Tim—Professor Williams—fell into that category. He had a heart attack and no surviving family to speak of.”

“You knew him?” I ask. I aim a puff of breath toward my forehead. It’s stuffy in here.

“Of course. He’s been teaching art history at Blackwood since the late nineties. Had been.” Dad corrects himself. “You don’t remember him? His wife Hazel used to bake that chocolate cake you loved so much.”