I trembled on my couch, phone in hand, internet searches giving me nightmares.
Darkness rained all around me, hissing with horrors, while Olive was in my room, asleep.
It’d been a long day.
After leaving the hospital, Justin kindly dropped Olive and me off at my place. He’d offered to stay, to run errands with us. But Olive had withdrawn and I sensed female company would be better for her fragile state. Once Justin had gone, I’d shown her around, changed the sheets on my bed, then taken her grocery shopping.
She’d perked up toward the end, asking if I could take her to Gil’s warehouse to grab her things as she literally had nothing. No toothbrush, no nightie, no clothes.
But I’d rather use the money from Status Enterprises that’d been earmarked for rent and bills to replace her things rather than go back to the warehouse so soon. I bought her what she needed, doing my best to buy her happiness as well as staples.
The strawberry scent I’d caught in Gil’s apartment now laced mine from her shower. The sweet pull of maple syrup and pancakes lingered from the unhealthy dinner I’d made, cooking Olive pancakes like I’d once cooked for her father, hoping it would fix her troubles and knowing nothing had that much power.
Exhaustion had sat on my shoulders all day—a whisper in my ear to fall asleep and hide, but I waited until Olive collapsed beside me watching Netflix before carrying her into my bed and returning to the little nest of blankets and pillow I’d made on the couch.
I got comfy.
I closed my eyes.
And images of paintbrushes and caravans and blood, blood, blood surrounded me.
Gil followed on such gruesome thoughts, fisting my heart and making me fear he’d died after all. That the blood he’d lost at the hospital would push him the final way into a grave.
He won’t die.
He can’t.
Even though his future was bleak, he had to stay alive for Olive’s sake.
Heart winging, I sat up, peering into the darkness. I checked the door was locked for the third time, and grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen.
My pulse stayed too high to rest, so I made the terrible decision of googling information on the most recent body painting murder case.
I hated that my name was printed for everyone to see.
I hated that Gil sounded like a blood-thirsty beast.
They hadn’t given any facts, just vague accusations that would lead to a witch hunt.
Returning to the page results, I braced myself all over again and clicked on a link for a petition set up by the parents of Moira Jonston, one of the murdered girls.
Sign the petition below to ensure this doesn’t happen to any other English girls.
Gilbert Clark, the renowned body painting artist and owner of the company Master of Trickery, used his stature as an artist to lure unsuspecting women into his lair to kill them.
He is a despicable human being and we boycott all his work.
We want Facebook to delete his Master of Trickery page.
We want the police to provide clear justice.
We want compensation for the families he’s torn apart.
We want him to pay to the highest degree.
Sign now to ensure he doesn’t get away with it.
#deathsentenceforthebodypainter
I tossed my phone away, closing my eyes from the screen’s glare.
Could they do that? Could they take away his business and force the law to lock him away indefinitely? There was no mention of his arrest for killing his uncle. But they’d pinned the girl’s murders on him instead.
Gil hadn’t killed them.
He might have painted them, but he didn’t actively kill them.
Jeffrey had gloated that he’d done that.
Their deaths coated his hands, and Jeffrey’s demise coated Gil’s.
He’d done the world a favour by removing him from society, yet he might end up serving a life sentence because of the power of social media and the pressure of people with a voice.
And Olive...what will happen to Olive?
I rubbed my eyes.
God, this is such a catastrophe.
My phone illuminated the gloom as it vibrated across the couch. An unknown number flashed across the screen.
Who the hell is calling me at two in the morning?
My heart kicked.
Gil?
Could he call me from his room in the hospital? Had something worse happened?
Scooping up the phone, I answered with a whisper, doing my best not to wake up Olive. “Hello?”
“Olin, is that you?”
I stiffened against the cushions. “Mum. Wow, hi.” I hadn’t heard from my parents in months. The last time was via email because phone data was expensive and international calling daylight robbery according to my father.
“We just heard the news. Are you okay? What on earth is going on?”
“I’m fine.”
What could I tell them? We’d never had a close relationship, and I’d never learned the art of assuring them I was happy and healthy while hiding things I didn’t want them to know.
“Did someone try to kill you?” my father bellowed. “Are you in protective services? I hope you’re taking this seriously and listening to authorities.”
I sat taller, scrambling for things I could admit while censoring so many others. “It’s all over. I’m safe. The murderer is dead and—”
“He’s not dead. He’s in hospital. He could get out at any moment and come and finish the job.” My mother lamented.
Dad jumped in. “We’ll send you a plane ticket. Come join us in Argentina. Get away from that place until he’s in a cell and some inmate with big arms and lots of tattoos rips him into pieces.”
The mental image of Gil being abused and killed in prison made me rub the sudden ache in my chest.
God, I hadn’t even thought about that.
What if he was killed behind bars?
What if he was found guilty and—
Gil can’t go to jail.
His personality wouldn’t survive. He’d either shut down and give up or he’d join the ranks of merciless criminals and never look back.
Or he’ll die.
I swallowed away my parent-induced panic. “I’m fine here, Dad. I don’t need to fly—”
“Are you traumatised?” Mum asked.
“No, I’m good.”
“You don’t sound good.”
“Well, I don’t know how I’m supposed to sound at two in the morning.”
“Why are you up so early?”
I held back my frustrated laugh. “You called me. Remember?”
“Humph.” Mum huffed. “Well, are you working? You’re not dancing, so where are you working?”
I gritted my teeth. They knew about my accident, but they hadn’t really understood, nor cared what the lack of dancing did to my soul. It was an open wound, and this phone call was not the time to tell them how callous such comments made me feel. “I got an admin job. It’s enough to get by.”
“Do you need more money?” Dad asked.
I balled my hands. I’d never taken money from them. Not once. Not even when I’d been in hospital with my surgery. They’d offered. Fairly regularly in fact. The guilt probably made them offer me at least something. They couldn’t provide love or companionship but they could provide cash.
“No, it’s fine. I can manage.”
“It’s not about managing, Olin; it’s about being honest if you need help,” Dad snipped. “I’ll send you something anyway. In case you’re not up for work with what happened. Shock can be delayed, you know. Don’t want you to end up homeless.”
I slouched into the couch, drained beyond belief. I was grateful for the money. Of course, I was. But I was also devalued and left with a sour taste in my mouth. “You don’t have to do that, Dad.”
“Already done.” He snorted down the line as if he’d fixed world peace. “Anything else we need to know?
”
A two-minute conversation and they were ready to go back to their lives. They’d been good parents and checked on their offspring who hadn’t been murdered, they were free again.
I shook my head. “No, everything is fine.”
Fine.
Fine.
That word echoed around empty and meaningless.
“You guys all good?” I added, being the dutiful daughter.
Mum mumbled something in the background while Dad replied, “Brilliant, honey. Time of our lives.”
“I’m glad you’re having such a great adventure.”
“You too, honey,” Mum said as if completely forgetting the circumstances of why they’d called me in the first place. “Love you.”
“Love you guys, too.”
Kisses were blown down the line before they hung up, and I clutched dead air and a cell phone that judged me.
Throwing it away for the second time, I slid sideways onto the couch and closed my eyes.
Chapter Twelve
______________________________
Gil
SEVEN DAYS PASSED excruciatingly slowly.
I might not have been in prison yet, but I was trapped against my will. I wasn’t allowed to leave my room. I couldn’t care for my daughter. I had police watching my every move and listening to every doctor’s visit.
The only spots of happiness in my long, lonely days of healing were when O brought Olive to visit. Without fail, the woman who’d I’d treated so badly and done so many unforgivable things to, arrived at lunchtime with my daughter.
The first day, Olive looked tired and timid. She’d clung to O’s hand as if sleeping in a strange bed in a strange apartment had regressed her to living with Jeffrey. I’d held her close, kissed her glossy hair as she admitted that O had made her pancakes. I’d told her how jealous I was after sharing my gross hospital lunch with her, all while O made an excuse to go to the gift shop to buy me a book so boredom didn’t kill me.
I did my best to stay light-hearted and normal, asking Olive lots of questions to assess her mental health. Overall, she seemed resilient. The same adorable kid I’d been lucky enough to share my life with until a year ago.
She was older.
A little more cynical, a lot more distrusting, and wise beyond her young years, but she wasn’t too messed up from her year-long ordeal.
Thank God.
Despite her seemingly okay exterior, I did my best to pry what’d happened without asking directly, trying to determine if she truly was okay or if a psychiatrist was needed.
Olive was too like me. Too clever at hiding her real emotions behind fake ones.
If I hadn’t killed Jeffrey, I would kill him all over again for what he’d done.
Each day, I was grateful to O for bringing my child and the time alone she gave us, but I hated that, once again, I was adding more stress on her.
I wanted to talk to her.
To tell her she should leave and forget about me.
That I didn’t deserve her help.
And it fucking tore me up that she was still helping me.
After everything I’d done.
I was draining her, breaking her, taking things I wasn’t allowed to take.
It didn’t matter that I loved her.
That now I had Olive safe, my heart no longer felt guilty for wanting her. All I could think about was the closeness we’d once shared, the ease between us, and the intensity of connection.
I’d always loved her.
I would continue to love her.
And that was why she had to get as far away from me as she could because I couldn’t offer her what she deserved. Olive and I were just another accident that O had to heal from and move onto better things.
By the end of the week and seven visits of O and Olive, my body had healed enough that the painkillers had been reduced. My stitched together side no longer stabbed me each time I took a breath, and my desire to escape the hospital became undeniable.
I still hadn’t been able to talk to O alone. Olive was always by my side, listening to every word O and I said to one another. My desire to set O free dwindled with every hour we spent together because how was I supposed to say goodbye to her? How was I supposed to face what I was about to face without her?
But how could I keep her after everything that I’d done?
My heart waged war against itself, wanting to be selfish all while knowing it had to do the right thing.
O had kindly brought a sketchpad and watercolours two days ago, along with magazines and a fully stocked e-reader. However, the distractions weren’t enough to stop me from watching the news and seeing how many people wanted my head on a spike for the girls my uncle had killed.
My future was undetermined.
My freedom no longer guaranteed.
And it all came to an end at eleven a.m. on the eighth day in hospital.
I looked up as the door opened, a smile already on my face in anticipation of my favourite visitors popping by. My heart pounded harder just at the thought of seeing O. My arms empty to hug both of them, even though O never came in touching distance.
But my smile fell as the kind doctor came in, her professional nod and gentle eyes familiar now. “How you feeling today?”
Sitting in the chair by the window, I sat taller. I didn’t hiss in pain anymore. Considering they’d stitched a big chunk of my side back together again, my body was miraculous with fast healing. The black threads holding my flesh together no longer looked morbid. My skin no longer swollen or infected. “Better.”
“That’s good.”
She read something on her iPad, skimming my notes and updates. “Your blood work looks fine and you’re healing better than I expected.” She looked up and smiled. “The good news is you’ll be fine. No long-term complications. Just listen to your body as you continue healing, and you should have no issues.”
“Okay, will do.”
Her face fell as she looked at the door then back to me. “Unfortunately, I do have some bad news.”
My pulse quickened. “They’re sick of waiting?”
She clutched the iPad to her chest. “Yes.”
“When?”
“Today. Now.”
My heart rate exploded. “Shit.”
I still accepted the consequences of my actions. I would be honest and take whatever punishment they deemed fit. But it didn’t stop the rush of panic or cold sweat at the thought of never having a private conversation with O again. Of never kissing my daughter or tucking her into bed.
Of never being free.
I wasn’t under any illusion that I was a saint. My chances of having a light sentence were slim...especially with the hate threats online and screams for justice on the news.
The doctor came closer. “If you tell me you’re not feeling well, I can ask to keep you here for another few days.”
I half-smiled. “I’m grateful, and believe me, I’m extremely tempted. I don’t want to go to jail, but I also can’t sit in limbo. I might as well get it over with.”
“Fine, but we’ll need to see you for check-ups every other day for the next week, so they’ll have to bring you back. And if you go home, please take it easy. Don’t ruin your progress by overdoing it.”
I thought of Olive and O. I thought about my warehouse that I’d sold to pay yet another ransom. I thought about paying rent on something I used to own and the mess I’d left my paint supplies in.
I thought about all of it in a terror-coloured blur.
Would I be released to sort out my life before I was jailed?
Or was this it?
Maybe I should feign sickness to stay a little longer.
My thoughts blackened as she backed toward the door. “I guess there’s nothing left to do apart from say you’re ready.”
Bracing myself on the armchair, I stood.
My body stayed upright. My pain stayed low.
I’d lived through worse.
I’d survived wo
rse.
I’ll survive this.
“Thanks for fixing me,” I said, smiling gratefully as she reached the door.
She stared into me, stern and worried. “Good luck, Mr. Clark. For the record, I believe you’re a good person and not what they’re painting you out to be online.” Turning the handle, she gave me one last look before slipping into the corridor just as two uniformed officers barged in.
Their legs spread, their arms crossed, their pleasure in finally arresting me glowed bright. “Mr. Clark. Please come with us.”
“Give me two minutes.” Grabbing the bag that Justin had brought me from my warehouse with a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and boxer-briefs, I stepped into the bathroom. Slipping from the god-awful hospital gown, I dressed slowly, favouring my right side. I cleaned my teeth and stared into the mirror, trying to come to terms with no longer being a free man.
When I returned to the room, the police looked me up and down, then moved aside to the now open door. “After you.”
“Can I call my daughter? She’s only eight. I can’t just—”
“That will be sorted later.”
“I can’t be locked up without figuring out her safety.” My voice vibrated with anger. “She’s my responsibility—”
“Should’ve thought of that before you committed a crime.”
My hands balled. “I killed Jeffrey Clark because he’d kidnapped her. I did what I could to save her.”
“And your excuse for killing those other girls?” The older one glowered.
“I didn’t kill them.”
He chuckled. “How about you hold off on your unbelievable explanations until you have a lawyer present.”
“But my daughter—”
“Can wait,” the younger clean-shaven one said. “Now, do you need a wheelchair?”
Temper raged through me, but I managed to stay controlled. Just. “No. I’m fine.”
“Good.”
The older one narrowed his eyes. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
I stiffened.
He chewed his cheek, eyeballing me. “Do I need to handcuff you?”
“No.” I held his stare. “I won’t run. And even if I did, I wouldn’t get far. All I care about is ensuring my daughter has someone to—”
“Fine. Don’t have time for this.” He pursed his lips. “Let’s go. All that nonsense can be taken care of at the station.”
The Finished Masterpiece (Master of Trickery Book 3) Page 54