by Sabre Rose
I should have.
“Come over and take a look at my work. You haven’t seen these ones before.”
And there I was, on display for the world to see. My eyes. My face. My neck. Three paintings in a row. Colourful and messy.
“When did you do these?” The paint was thick and raised from the canvas. My skin was red and blue, green and yellow. My hair was a rainbow.
You laughed. It was the first and only time I heard you laugh like that. Loud. Unabashed. I thought it was the real you. “Do you like them?”
I could say without a hint of dishonesty they were the best on display. Your work was amazing, your talent undeniable. Everyone in the room knew it. Your fellow students looked on with envy and your teacher with pride. She kept pulling you away from me to hear the praises of potential clients.
I wondered what you saw in me, what made you choose me as your muse when there were so many other women who adored you.
I was no one. Nothing. Just a girl who worked at a pizza shop and was saving what little money she earned so she could leave the only place she’d ever called home.
You were someone. Everything. A boy who dripped with talent, who had the world at their feet, who deserved more than a girl like me.
“So you’re Ronan’s latest muse?” The voice was cold and low. I turned to find dark eyes fixed on me, mockery posed in her expression.
“Ronan?” I looked over to your painting. My eyes focused on the scribble of a signature in the corner. Ronan Killian.
This girl, this woman who clearly had feelings for you, stepped closer and tugged at the collar of my dress. I jerked away.
She smiled coldly. “I see he hasn’t changed.”
There was a straw in the drink she held and she chased it around the glass with her lips. “I was his muse once. Before his tastes changed and he preferred his victims to come from the other side of the tracks.” Her eyes moved up and down my body, unimpressed. I recalled seeing them painted in black on one of the canvases in your shed.
“Lenora.” Your voice was cold when you said her name. “What are you doing here?”
She swatted your arm playfully, eyes gleaming. “To see you, silly. Your parents told me about this little exhibit so I thought I’d pop along to support you.” She pouted, glossy and plump lips ringed in pink. “I thought you’d be pleased.” Chasing the straw around the glass again, she grinned when she caught it and lowered her lips, looking over the rim of her glass before pulling up in slow seduction.
Your body grew tense. “You can leave now.”
She smiled and bit down on the straw. Hard. Something flickered in your eyes. Lust. Repulsion. I wasn’t sure.
“Don’t be like that,” she cooed. Then she smiled. “It was nice to meet you…” She paused and shrugged. “Whoever you are.” And then she sauntered off, swaying her hips as though she knew, or hoped you were watching. But you weren’t. I turned to find your eyes burning.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know she would be here.”
I started to reply, to tell you there was no need to apologise, but I caught a flash of a couple across the room and my heart leapt in panic. My blood turned cold and I tugged on your arm. “I need to leave.”
You followed the line of my vision. You saw the panic in my eyes and pulled me away.
“Is that them?” you asked. I had told you of them the night before. How my father was certain they played a role in my sister’s death. How they turned up at her service, not in support of our loss, but as a statement of their innocence.
They dripped in wealth and privilege. Her hair was blunt and cold and blonde. Her neck was encased in gold. His hair was thick and full and dark. His suit was tailored and tapered to perfection. They were looking my way with pained expressions. My breath caught in my throat. My heart raced. Part of me wanted to storm over to them, demand an explanation. She wasn’t missing anymore. She was dead. They had to know something. He was the last person to see her alive. I wanted to know if she really believed his claim. If she was certain he had no part in her death.
But you took my hand, ignoring the call of your name from your instructor and ushered me outside. The cold air was a welcome relief. It allowed me to breathe again. But when I looked over my shoulder and through the glass of the window, I could make out their frames, weaving through the crowd, heading my way, and once again my breath became heavy and stuck in my chest.
I turned to you. “Take me away.”
Hand in hand, we started to run. There was something exhilarating about running down that street with you. The wind rushing by us, our hands gripped together, cars speeding by in the blur. Excitement rose in my chest, but I couldn’t say why. Laughter threatened to bubble as I reached down and tugged my shoes from my feet.
“Come on,” you urged, even though they were far in the distance, staring down the road at us in confusion. “Keep going.”
I thought it was because you wanted to protect me. Because you wanted to shield me from them, from their past, from my past so I ran with you, blissfully unaware. Blissfully ignorant in my giddiness.
When our steps slowed and we panted with exertion, you hailed a taxi and we climbed in. Your phone buzzed. The screen told me it was your mother but you powered it off, too busy laughing with me. Too busy sucking in the air that our lungs craved.
“That was close.” You took my hand and ran your thumb over the flesh. “You okay?”
“I wonder what they were doing there?”
You shrugged. “Maybe they knew one of the students. Most of them are merely rich kids who consider themselves creative.”
It seemed like a reasonable explanation. And it was. Because it was the truth.
You unlocked the door to your shed with a large key. The lock groaned, then the door groaned when you pushed it open. The room had not changed from the last time I was here, but it felt different. This time it felt familiar. Safe. It felt like home.
Tossing my shoes into the corner, you caught me from behind, wrapping your arms around my waist, my back to your chest, and twirled me about the room. My laughter filled the space.
Then you put me down and I turned in your arms. We were face to face. Inhaling each other’s breath. And then your lips were on mine in a feverish passion. Your hands were on my body and mine were on yours. I fumbled with the buttons of your shirt, and once released, I tossed it away. You reached for the hem of my dress, your fingers caressing my thighs and my side as you lifted the material up and over my head. Your mouth dove to my neck and I stretched back for you, open and vulnerable. But then you pulled back, eyes dancing.
“I want to paint you.” Your voice came out in a rush. “I want you to pose for me. Would you do that? Would you pose for me?”
At first I was a little confused. I had already posed for you. You had already recorded the lines of my face. But then it dawned on me when your eyes fell to my body, what you meant.
“Please?” You sensed my hesitation. All the confidence and exhilaration had fled my stance.
Without waiting for my reply, you slipped one of the straps of my bra over my shoulder. Then the other. Each touch licked my flesh with fire. Walking behind me, you undid the hooks of my bra and it fluttered to the floor. Your hands stroked my legs as you removed my underwear. And then I was naked before you.
Nervousness descended. I stood, one hand clutching the wrist of the other across my belly, one knee bent and floating out to the side, the ball of that foot twisting into the wooden panels of the floor.
“I don’t know how to stand.”
You had already pulled your easel into the centre of the room. A palette was in your hand. “Just like that. Stay exactly as you are.”
Your brush moved furiously over the canvas. My world closed in and nothing else existed. There was only you and me and the strokes of your brush.
And then the door creaked open and they walked in. I was confused. It should have been obvious then, but I couldn’t put the pieces together. I scram
bled for the sheet off the mattress to cover myself as Mrs Walsh walked over, a look of disgust on her face, and muttered, “Oh, dear god.”
Benedict Walsh looked at me greedily. His eyes travelled over me as though he could see through the fabric of the sheet, as though he knew what was underneath. Then he winked at you.
“What are you doing here?” I was still shocked with confusion.
Brianna Walsh looked over at me in surprise. “I’m sorry, but do I know you?” She had no idea who I was. They had no idea who I was. It was plain in the way they stared at me. There was no recognition, no remorse or embarrassment. To them I was no one. Nothing. It should have clicked for me then but it didn’t.
I was too busy adoring you to be suspicious of you.
“What are you doing here?” you echoed my question.
“We flew all the way back from London, just to see your little exhibition, and you literally ran away from us.” Brianna Walsh looked around the room for the first time. She was not impressed. “Ronan, please tell me you haven’t been sleeping here. It’s so filthy. You’ll come home tonight, won’t you?”
It was only then that it hit me. You weren’t just Killian. You weren’t even Ronan Killian. You were Ronan Killian Walsh, son of Benedict and Brianna Walsh.
My world crashed. The sensations of the city closed in, overwhelming me as they slipped through the open door. Motor oil. Pavement wet with rain. The faint aroma of freshly baked bread.
The overhead light spluttered on and off as though it too shared my surprise. My thoughts were sluggish. I had the pieces. I just couldn’t put them together.
I needed to escape. Gathering my dress from the floor and my shoes from the corner, I clutched them in my hand, the sheet still twisted around me and dragging behind like a veil.
I met your eyes, those beautiful, piercing blue eyes. “It’s not what you think,” you said.
There was such desperation in your expression, such pleading. I looked over at your parents and was met with confusion.
“Ronan, tell me what is going on this instant.” Benedict Walsh’s voice was a command.
I didn’t wait to hear your answer. With my shoes and dress stuffed between my fingers, I ran out the door, tears welling and your gaze burning into my back.
“It’s not what you think,” you yelled out again.
But that was a lie.
I had no idea what I thought, so how could you?
eleven
I ran all the way home. I couldn’t tell you how long it took, or even the names of the streets I ran down. Pushing open the door, I walked in, dropping my shoes to the floor and leaning heavily against the door to close it.
“Soph?” My father grunted as he hoisted himself out of the chair. “Soph is that you?”
Questions. So many questions with no answers. My phone vibrated. It was you again. Thirteen missed calls. Countless texts begging for me to let you explain. And you could have. In a message, in a text, but you didn’t. You only pleaded for me to talk to you, to pick up the phone, to listen.
My mind was a mess. Thoughts, questions and answers tumbled about my brain, tripping, stumbling and rolling over each other until I was unable to follow a single line of thought. But there was only one question that remained. Only one that I could focus on.
Why?
“Yeah, Dad.” I rubbed the lipstick off my mouth, swiped the mascara stains from under my eyes and took a deep breath before stepping into the lounge.
He blinked in surprise. “Why are you wearing a sheet?”
Striding past him, I avoided meeting his eye. “I just need a moment alone.”
“Are you okay?” he called as the door shut.
Did you know who I was from the start?
Why did you let me pour out my heart and my soul and not utter a word?
Was this just some sick game you wanted to play?
Did you see her that night?
Were you a witness to your father’s guilt?
I let the sheet drop to the floor and hurriedly drew my dressing gown around my shoulders, pulling it tight around my neck just as Dad knocked.
I flashed him a smile as I opened the door and assured him I was fine. With painful movements he lowered himself back into his chair. He had enough to worry about.
“Have you had something to eat?” I asked.
He waved aside my concern but still stared at me curiously. “I heated one of those dinners in the microwave.” Reaching over the side of his chair, he took another sip of the dark liquid in his glass. “We need to talk.”
I hardly heard his words because I was too busy thinking about you.
Was it bad that I still lusted after you? Was it bad that I wanted to run to you? That I longed for that swell of denial and excess, restriction and freedom that all rolled into that one night with you?
I needed to get away from Dad’s imploring eyes. “Not now, Dad. I think I’m just going to call it a night.”
Dad grinned up at me, nostalgia for an often used joke. “I think it’s always been called that.”
I couldn’t smile. I couldn’t laugh.
Dad’s expression dropped. “We need to talk, Soph. The police called.”
“Why?”
“They’ve got the results of the autopsy and someone has come forward with new information.”
My heart jumped. “And you went without me?”
“I was right all along, Soph.” Dad’s face gleamed. He sat forward on the edge of his chair, eager to share the information. “They know who did it.” His eyes were fire. “I knew it. I knew it all along,” he muttered. “The police always insisted that they looked into him and he was clean as a whistle, but I knew. No one is that clean. It was just fucking deep pockets. They strangled her, Soph. Those fucking bastards strangled her and then hid the body. They paid people off to keep it a secret but this guy that came forward said he couldn’t stand the guilt anymore. He saw it. He saw everything.”
Nausea tumbled in my gut. I struggled to smile but smile I did because I knew he drew strength from it. It made him think I was okay. Everything was okay.
He relayed the story with sadness and strength. He told me of the last moments of my sister’s life. And with each word that came from his mouth, the sky began to fall.
She danced. People were transfixed. Alcohol was poured, music floated through the air, and the crowd urged her on. She had one drink afterwards, maybe two. The witness didn’t want to come forward but the revival of her case in the news brought along guilt he thought he had long buried.
He was the one who had bound her hands and her feet. He was the one who stuffed her broken body into the back of the stolen car. He was the one who drove her to the water.
But he was not her killer.
In the story he told, the killer was you.
He told of an only child of a wealthy family, spoilt and favoured since birth. He told the story of a child who was used to getting what he wanted. Of a child who was never told no.
He told of how he wanted her and how she said no.
Of seeing him wrestle with her, drag her into a room by the pull of her hair. He told of her muffled cries and of her silence.
And then he told of seeing her afterwards, the marks and the bruises. The red welts around her neck. Her limp and lifeless body.
He told of the money your family paid for his silence. He spoke of loyalty but he also spoke of truth.
Dad’s eyes danced as he told me. He was no longer in limbo, waiting for my sister to walk back through the door. There was passion in his stance. Life in his movements. There was now something driving him.
Revenge.
You.
I didn’t say anything while he spoke, because what could I say?
“You see?” Dad said. “I was right about them being responsible, but I was wrong about who. It was the son. The father was merely the one to cover it up. The police are waiting on the arrest warrant now. They are going to bring these bastards down.”
My muttered response must have satisfied him as he sat back in his chair, nodding to himself and I returned to my room. But once I closed the door, I bolted across the space, heaving into the bin beside my bed and emptying the contents of my stomach. My hands flew to my neck as if somehow, if I covered my bruises, covered the evidence of you, this nightmare would end.
But it didn’t.
Through the closed door of my bedroom, I could still hear the low hum of the voices of the television. I had fallen asleep to that noise almost every night for years. It was a comfort. But now the muted voices only served to taunt me. Tearing my gown from my body, I threw it to the floor and stood in front of the mirror. I stared at myself as I ran my fingers over my body, starting with the darkening marks on my neck. The marks left by you. Thoughts of you, of my sister, of our time together, swirled until I no longer knew what was truth and what was fiction.
I thought of you.
I thought of your lips, so red, so sensual as they pressed against my skin. I thought of your eyes, so piercing, so pure, like they could see into my soul. I thought of your hair and the dark tufts trapped between my fingers.
I thought of your hands wrapped around my throat, and the vision blurred and twisted in my mind until my sister and I became one and when you killed her you killed me.
Twenty-three missed calls. You were relentless. My voicemail was filled with the sound of you. I heard your inhales and exhales as you sucked on poison. You claimed your innocence. You denied knowing who I was. Whose sister I was. And I was ashamed to admit there was a part of me that wanted to believe you.
I couldn’t talk because I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t listen to your voice, not knowing if it were truth or lies. So I hid under the protection of a blanket.
It was only when silence came that I could piece together the thoughts in my brain.
I knew what I must do.
The police were coming for you.
But I wanted to get there first.
twelve