CHAPTER FIFTEEN
By the time I was done creating a new head for Brandon Michaelson, whatever was left of my sanity had disappeared like the crushed portion of his skull.
And although his body now looked the way it had in life, I no longer recognized myself in the mirror on my way out the door once the funeral home went dark for the night.
How could I be capable of doing such good for some people while also being capable of committing evil to others in the darkest hours of the night?
I thought about it as I climbed behind the wheel of the hearse, and I continued thinking as I steered through the quiet streets until I reached Seint Row in Hollow Cove.
I didn’t want to step foot in that house for any reason, let alone of my own accord.
But if I was going to ensure the safety of my brothers and the business Leonard had left to the three of us, then I needed to make sure that, financially, they would be taken care of after I was gone—and whether that meant death or prison, it didn’t matter.
I just needed to know they’d be okay, even if I wasn’t.
The mansion stood at the conclusion to a dead-end road, coming into view as I made my quick approach, speeding down the dark and barely lit Seint Row.
Cold dread crept beneath my skin, worming in and out of my pores until it was affixed to my body like a tattoo.
It made a home inside my gut, and the urge to vomit crashed against me in turbulent waves.
One day, I thought, I'll be used to this feeling.
I'm not supposed to get used to it.
I'm supposed to listen and run away. In fact, I should turn around and disappear right now.
But despite the sensibility in my head, I pulled on the mask and kept going until I was turning into the driveway, stopping the hearse at the mansion's foyer entrance.
Dean was already waiting.
"We didn't call you," Dean said as I climbed out and slammed the door shut.
"Are you ever not here?"
The corner of his mouth twitched as I approached, but he didn't allow himself to smile.
"I do go home," he answered, clasping his hands at his waist.
"Well, you certainly had me fooled," I said, brushing past him and crossing the threshold.
He closed the door behind us and said, "My hours are unconventional."
"Clearly."
He stood before me and asked, "What can I do for you, sir?"
I turned to face Dean and mimicked his stance. "I'd like a word with your boss."
He nodded. "I'll see if he's available. Please"—he gestured with a sweep of his arm toward the adjacent room—"have a seat and make yourself comfortable."
With a curt nod, I did as he’d suggested and left the foyer to sit on one of the antique sofas while he headed upstairs.
I fidgeted for a few moments, my impatience growing more and more aggressive by the second. I didn't appreciate wasting time, and this felt an awful lot like that, when I seriously doubted that Dean didn't know whether Gerald was available or not.
He knew, I thought suspiciously, my eyes trained on a painting from across the room. He just didn't know if Gerald would want to talk to me or not.
And why wouldn't good ol' Dad want to talk to me? The guy had tried to yank me into his circles for years, and now that he finally had me, he still seemed to want to keep me at somewhat of an arm's distance.
Why is that, Gerry? I thought, my eyes on the painting of what I assumed to be the Massachusetts shoreline at dusk.
It was a stunning watercolor representation of the setting sun, its golden rays glinting off the sparkling seas.
A lighthouse was cast off in the distance, its beckoning light a beacon of guidance and hope.
Memories from my youth came to mind. I remembered when I'd walk down to the dock with Anna, where we'd watch the seagulls circle the sky and the boats skim the water's surface.
Those fleeting moments of serenity had always brought peace and comfort to my soul, and the salty breeze whispered promises that one day, if I was fortunate enough, I could feel that way all the time.
One day, when I was adopted by a good family.
One day, when I was older and had money.
One day, when I could get far away from bad luck and bad people.
But the ocean had lied.
There had been no room for permanent peace for the boy I was, and it was too late for the man I had become.
And, hey, maybe peace was overrated. Maybe I didn't want to feel comfort and stability every single day for the rest of my life. Maybe I’d be bored.
I'm so full of shit, I thought with a melancholy smirk, my somber gaze still on that painting. Just like the ocean, telling lies to help me cope with this shitty life.
"Well, hello there."
A smooth voice pulled my eyes away from the painting to watch as Virginia, Gerald's wife, entered the room, looking like a countess drifting effortlessly from one space into the next.
She wore a pale green nightgown that dusted the floor, its length dancing around her bare feet as she approached with a tall glass of water in her hand.
"I wasn't aware we had company," she said, her hips swaying as she walked.
For the sake of being polite, I stood and bowed my head in lieu of a greeting. "Dean told me to wait in here," I explained. "I was just"—I waved toward the painting across the room—"admiring the artwork."
She gestured flightily with her hand as she took a sip of her water, her eyes on me as she drank. Then she said, "Ah, yes. My daughter, Analise … she paints all of these. She's an extremely talented artist."
Startled by this tidbit of information, I cast my gaze around the room to scan the rest of the paintings adorning the walls.
The night of the party, I had noticed them briefly but assumed they were expensive works of art, purchased from galleries around the world.
I hadn't expected that the woman who'd captured my attention could also be the one to put paint to the canvas.
You are full of surprises, Analise.
"I guess that's a little silly," Virginia added, her lips quirking momentarily into a smile of adoration. "You know, to keep your child's artwork hanging all over the walls …"
She uttered a light, contemplative sound as she turned her head, casting her eyes this way and that, addressing the artwork in question, as if they were nothing but crayon-drawn stick figures on sheets of construction paper.
"But …" A forlorn sigh was released from her lips as she looked at me again. "Do you have children?"
I shook my head. "I do not."
She allowed her gaze to linger on me then, and in that moment, I remembered the way she had looked at me at dinner the night of Gerald's birthday party, the interest I saw in her eyes then.
It was still there, as alive as it'd been that night.
It had irked me then, left me judging. But the darkness I saw tonight, mingling there with that hunger, rendered my soul unsettled.
"I've seen you here before," she said, indicating that she recalled that night too.
Hell, who could forget?
"You were here for Gerry's birthday."
I nodded once. "I was."
"That was a costume party," she went on, her eyes raking over my frame, like she was trying to undress me with her mind alone. "But you're still dressed up like it’s Halloween."
She took a step closer and lifted the glass again to her lips. Her eyes flitted toward my masked face as her unused hand touched the low neckline of her nightgown, her fingertips dancing over her deep, surgery-enhanced cleavage.
"Gerry isn't the only one who gets what he wants," she whispered in a way meant for seduction, taking that hand and laying it against my chest.
I narrowed my eyes from beneath the mask as I wrapped my hand around hers and forcefully pulled it away, letting it drop to her side.
"I'm not interested," I replied in a lower, quieter, more menacing voice.
She smiled, and that sinister undertone she kept hidden beneath her amiable guise flickered with life within her wicked gaze.
"I have never cared much about the interests of others, and I have no intention of starting now."
I opened my mouth to reply when the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs pulled my attention away from Virginia's smirking lips. Dean appeared in the doorway of the sitting room, his vision going from me then to Virginia as he offered her a cordial smile.
"Ma'am," he said with a subtle bow of his head.
She lifted her chin and didn't bother glancing my way again as she walked out of the room coolly, her glass of water in her hand. Not a word was spoken to Dean as she left, her footsteps silent in the foyer.
Dean glanced over his shoulder in Virginia's direction for a moment, and when it seemed she was gone, he turned back toward me and cleared his throat.
"Sorry for the wait," he said.
With a deep breath, I brushed a gloved hand over my chest, as if Virginia's touch had left behind a wrinkle on something other than my psyche, and I replied, "It's all right."
"He's in the office, waiting for you."
"Thanks."
I lifted my gaze for a moment to glance at that painting, the one of the waterlines at sunset, and allowed myself another second to remember the peace I'd once felt, listening to the crashing waves and ebbing tides and Anna’s incessant chattering.
I straightened my tie as I imagined that girl at my side, hoping she was in a much, much better place now than she once had been, better than where I was now.
Then I turned to take my leave from Dean's watchful presence, until he stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.
I looked down at that hand but said nothing as I eyed him expectantly, knowing he wouldn't make his boss wait for nothing.
"If you think he's bad," he muttered quietly, "she's so, so much worse."
"Nothing I can't handle," I replied, my tone barely above a whisper.
"You can think that," he said, lowering his hand, "but I'm telling you … he might be a weasel, but she's …" His voice trailed off.