True Evil_A fast-paced psychological thriller that will keep you hooked

by Julia Derek

  10

  I wasn’t surprised to find that Ariel Friedman and Mom lived in a penthouse apartment that took up the entire top floor of the Fifth Avenue building I had entered. I was on my way to see them for Sunday dinner, and I was looking forward to meeting part of my new family, meaning my kid sister. Hopefully she’d be awake. I had thought about her a lot lately. She was an innocent in all of this and I worried about her being so close to Mom all the time. She was just a little kid. Ariel I couldn’t care less if I ever met. Maybe he was a nice man who’d been completely fooled by Mom, maybe he wasn’t. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time she had succeeded pulling the wool over someone’s eyes.

  Their private elevator took me straight up to the top floor and their apartment. A tall butler somewhere in his fifties met me as the elevator door slid aside.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hanson,” he stated in a British accent. He was wearing a black tuxedo over a starched white shirt with a bowtie. “Welcome to the Friedman residence. Please follow me.”

  I rolled my eyes inwardly, thinking that Mom must love this old-school style of male housekeeper. She had always had a thing for the Brits and aristocracies in general. I followed the man into a sitting room with antique-looking furniture that didn’t look particularly user-friendly. Mom and a dark-haired, seventy-ish man with a sour-looking, olive-hued face featuring sharp, black eyebrows sat on the sofa facing the entrance. Mom, who wore an elegant blue cocktail dress, broke into a big smile as she got to her feet. Exclaiming my name, she hurried over to me, embracing me with both arms, that same perfume assaulting my nostrils with its intensity. I had no choice but to return her gesture, but I didn’t press her against me the way she did to me.

  She released me slowly and ruffled my hair—well, raked a hand over whatever hair had grown out—just like she used to do when I was much younger. It took all I had not to slap her hand away.

  “It’s so good to see you, Shane,” she said, flashing that fake grin of hers.

  I forced myself to look moderately happy back.

  She turned toward the black-haired man. He had gotten to his feet as well, measuring a head shorter than Mom in her heels. She motioned toward him.

  “This is my husband, Ariel,” she said, beaming proudly.

  Ariel extended a hand in my direction. I took it and he squeezed it as he shook it, eyeing me steadfastly all along, a display of dominance. “It’s nice to meet you, Shane. Welcome to our home.” His voice was accented and the corners of his mouth flickered as though he was attempting to smile but couldn’t make it happen. It looked like he had rubbed shoe cream into his thinning hair, it was so greasy and overly black.

  “Thank you,” I said in response, giving him a brief nod instead of a smile. I think he preferred that anyway.

  “Shay!” a little-girl voice cried out to my left side. Turning in that direction, I spotted a light-haired toddler with pigtails wearing a pink and white dress charging toward me on unsteady legs. She had her chubby arms outstretched in my direction as she stumbled over. “Shay!”

  “No, Neera,” Ariel said sternly, attempting to walk up to her, but Mom stopped him before he could get far.

  “It’s okay,” Mom said, holding his arm firmly. “It’s her brother.”

  My eyes went between him and the girl, who reached me and pulled my pant leg, clearly expecting me to pick her up. How could I not? She was adorable. I bent down and grabbed her in my arms, her legs straddling my hip. She giggled with excitement.

  “Shay, it’s so nice to meet you!” She pressed a wet kiss to my cheek as I held her. She had already won my heart many times by then.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Neera,” I said and smiled at her. “Neera is such a pretty name. A pretty name for a pretty little girl.”

  “Thank you, Shay! I’m so happy you come see me.” She grinned big at me and I couldn’t help but return her enthusiasm. I thought I saw a little of myself in her round face with the almond-shaped hazel eyes, though my eyes were a deep blue-green.

  “Thanks, Neera. I’m glad I could make it. How old are you?”

  She screwed up her face for a moment. Then she held up three straight fingers and one bent with a proud expression.

  “Three and a half?” I asked.

  “Yes, almost. Three and five months. My birthday is in the fall.”

  “Ah. So is mine.”

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Ariel said and resolutely took the girl out of my arms.

  She protested loudly, stating that she wanted to be with Shay.

  “You can talk to him more when we eat dinner, sweetie,” Ariel said and handed her over to a woman who had suddenly joined us. She had to be a nanny. Neera kept screaming as the woman carried her out of the sitting room. I could hear her voice several seconds after they had disappeared, she was yelling so loudly. Feeling instantly protective of the little girl, I couldn’t help but stare in the direction they had gone until Mom said:

  “Don’t worry, she’ll soon be back with us. She’s at an age where she requires lots of attention, though, so we thought it better she play with her toys until it’s time for the main course. She’s a handful.” Mom smiled at Ariel. “She must have heard that Shane had gotten here and escaped from Karen’s clutches. God knows she’s a fast runner, the child.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, then turned to me. “Would you like a drink, Shane?”

  “Um,” I began, but Mom answered for me, placing a hand on Ariel’s arm: “He isn’t allowed to drink alcohol, dear. He’s only 18.”

  “Oh,” Ariel said, looking momentarily confused. “Maybe a soda or juice then?”

  “Sure,” I said. “A Coke would be nice.”

  Ariel motioned for the butler to go get it, then turned to me. He cleared his throat, getting ready to say something, and it finally occurred to me that having me come for Sunday dinner had probably not been his idea. In fact, I wondered if he had insisted it was something that shouldn’t happen at all. Like me meeting my kid sister. He clearly didn’t approve of me being near her for long. I suppose I couldn’t blame him. He didn’t know I was innocent and that his wife was the real psycho. At least I hoped this was so. The very notion that he knew the truth and accepted it turned my stomach. No, of course he didn’t know, I calmed myself. Why would Mom risk telling him everything?

  To make him more comfortable around me, I said, “You have a great home, sir. I love the paintings!” I meant what I had said; several of the paintings on the walls were from the early twentieth century, from the Montparnasse movement. Before I went to prison, I had been an avid photographer and painter. I had been told I had great talent in both areas. I had to give up the photography while doing my time, so I had focused on painting and drawing. My main counselor had convinced the director to let me use art as a form of therapy, even though he didn’t believe in that. Ramsdale’s education curriculum consisted primarily of basic subjects such as math, English, and the sciences, as well as learning discipline.

  “I particularly love this one,” I said and indicated a large painting featuring three people in funny hats. “It’s Kiki of Montparnasse, isn’t it?”

  Ariel stared at me for a few silent moments, then said, “Yes, it is. How did you know that?”

  “He studied art history before he… he…” Mom attempted to explain, but I cut her off and said, “I love art and always have. I used to paint a lot and take lots of photographs that my family have framed on their walls. Some of our friends, too. I was allowed to paint in juvie.”

  “Really?” Ariel cocked his head, looking suddenly more relaxed. “You never showed me any of your son’s work,” he admonished Mom. “You never even mentioned he painted.”

  “Ah, yes, he’s a very talented painter and photographer,” Mom said, looking uncomfortable. “I had his pictures taken down from my walls, because it was too painful for me to look at them. So did my parents. But we’ve saved them all. I’d be happy to show them to you one day.”

  “I would
love to see them,” Ariel commented dryly. “As soon as possible. You know how much I love the visual arts, Jennifer.”

  “Right,” Mom said curtly. The butler appeared then with a small silver tray on which there were three drinks. He handed me the one with Coke, the glass of white wine to Mom, and the tumbler filled with ice and something amber-colored to Ariel.

  The short Israeli raised his glass at me. “To all the great artists.”

  11

  After some more small talk about painting and photography—it turned out that Ariel was an avid art collector and always on the lookout for undiscovered gems, not to mention hidden talents—we proceeded into the dining room. The long table could easily seat twenty people and was covered with a crisp white table cloth so long its borders kissed the shiny hardwood floor underneath. Large windows on one side of the room allowed for an exquisite view of Central Park and all the buildings on the other side of it. The setting sun lit up the masses of rolling trees growing in the park, imbuing the many greens of the crowns with a warmer tint.

  It went well with the current atmosphere around the dining table, which had warmed up considerably. Ever since Ariel found out about my art, he seemed to not care nearly as much about the fact that I was a murderer who had just been released from prison.

  At the moment, he was telling me how he had come to America as a young man from Israel, only nineteen years old. He’d brought his life savings into the country, which bought him temporary residency. Instead of going to college, he had focused on developing real estate, starting very small with a walk-up building in Harlem that he fixed up and rented out. Slowly but surely, he learned the business and was able to expand. Then he met his first wife, a Jewish woman, and got married. By age fifty, he was a multimillionaire and developed an interest in visual arts. He had accomplished what he wanted in life, including being the father of three now grown children. Unfortunately, ten years later, his wife got breast cancer that eventually got the best of her. Not until he had turned seventy and was even richer, having expanded into art collection, did he meet Mom, whom he instantly fell for. Judging by the way he gazed at her, I could tell he was still in love. I very much doubted she felt the same way about him. Knowing her, all she wanted from him was his money, property, and probably art, too. His collection must be worth a lot. It was too bad she had me to deal with, having to pretend she cared so much about me.

  I did find it a bit odd that she seemed to strongly dislike the fact that Ariel had suddenly developed a liking for me. Had him disapproving of me been part of her plan?

  When a server removed our appetizer plates, I had a better idea of what she had been fearing:

  “You’ll be taking up your painting and photography again, yes?” Ariel asked me, clasping his hands on the table.

  “Um, yeah, I think so,” I replied. “If time allows for it once I start college.”

  “But you won’t start college until fall,” Ariel pointed out.

  “Yes, not until September,” I confirmed.

  “So you have many months before school starts then. Listen, I have a warehouse with studios near your house in Astoria where you can paint and take photos. You want that?”

  I looked at the aging man with the obviously dyed black hair. I could tell that he would accept no other answer but a resounding “yes.”

  I supposed I had nothing to lose by building a relationship with Mom’s new husband. If anything, it should make it easier for me to have a relationship with my little sister. That was crucial as I had to save her from Mom’s evil clutches before she was destroyed, too. The girl had yet to appear for dinner. Besides, I got good vibes from this man now that I had gotten to know him some more. I really didn’t think he was of Mom’s ilk. To be absolutely sure, I needed to get to know him better, of course. If I was lucky, he’d provide me with the perfect opportunity to take down Mom.

  I smiled at Ariel. “Yes, I would very much want to take up painting again. I’m dying to show you my old work from before I—I”—I didn’t want to mention the word prison—“I went away.” I turned to Mom. “Where do you keep it?”

  It wouldn’t surprise me if she had thrown it all out.

  She had a sip of her wine. I noticed that she was on her third glass already. She had always liked her alcohol, some years more than others. “My parents keep all of it in the basement at the country house.”

  “Where is the country house again?” Ariel asked her.

  “In the Catskills. About a two-hour drive from the city.”

  “Ah. Let’s go there tomorrow and look at them. I want to see them.”

  “Sure,” Mom replied stiffly, then turned to me, “Shane, how’s Sophie doing?”

  “Sophie?” I asked, momentarily thrown.

  “Who is Sophie?” Ariel asked.

  “Sophie is Shane’s neighbor. They’re friendly,” Mom replied, then turned to me again. “Have you seen her lately?”

  “Uh, no,” I replied. “It seems she’s gone somewhere. I haven’t seen her since the day you came to visit.”

  “I see. Where do you think she’s gone?” Mom stared at me, a cool smile playing on her lips. I stared back at her. I could tell that she knew where Sophie had gone; it was written all over her face.

  “You tell me,” I retorted angrily. “You know her, don’t you?”

  She cocked a brow. “I know her? No, I have never before seen that girl in my life. What makes you say that, darling?” She dared me to tell her why with her eyes. She wanted me to snap, lose control, remind Ariel what a dangerous lunatic I was. It seemed he barely remembered that I was a juvenile offender any longer. I took a deep breath through my nostrils to calm down; I wasn’t about to refresh his memory.

  I just shrugged my shoulders and said, “Don’t know. Just got a feeling.” Then I pointed at a black gleaming sculpture near the windows. “Hey Ariel, what’s that sculpture from? It looks East African.”

  That was all it took to shift the conversation back to where I wanted it.

  12

  I was totally beat once I was back in my hood again, hours later. I could barely keep my eyes open. Even so, I was in good spirits and those, plus lots of coffee, kept me going. Not only had I gotten a chance to spend time with my kid sister, who’d appeared for dessert, but I had also gained an unexpected ally in Ariel. Mom must be fuming still, I thought, smiling to myself. The more Ariel and I had connected, the more pissed she had gotten. No wonder she hadn’t mentioned the fact that I was an artist who lots of people considered talented. Her new husband was obsessed with art and could afford the best. I wondered when she had realized that he’d be very interested in seeing his wife’s son’s art. While I wasn’t his son by blood, it was fair to argue that I was his stepson. Not that it seemed like he had wanted to acknowledge that at first, of course. But now, seeing how we had something in common that was important to both of us, everything had changed.

  I would certainly work this angle, make him keep liking me and take me under his wing. He could very well be the missing piece of the puzzle, the person who would help me expose Mom, whether he wanted to or not.

  When he realized what she was all about, I doubted he’d want to stay married to her. He didn’t strike me as a man who’d put up with a wife in prison.

  The only thing that hadn’t worked out was for me to get a chance to get my hands on either Mom’s phone or her computer. She kept the phone with her at all times, and I had no idea where in the huge home she kept the rest of her technology. But that was okay; I’d at least been able to stick a GPS on the limo she had picked me up in. I claimed to have lost a card one of the guys in juvie had given me and asked to check the back of the vehicle. She had let me and soon Jordan, the driver, had appeared and taken me down to the garage.

  I entered the apartment building and walked up to my floor. As I was about to enter the key into the door, I paused. I should go up and check if Sophie had come back. It was almost eleven o’clock, which I didn’t think was that late
to pay her a visit. Especially not given the fact that she had paid me one that late before.

  I climbed the stairs to her floor and walked up to her door and knocked hard on it.

  No one came to open. I knocked a little harder and waited. It was dead silent around me. I leaned into the door and placed my ear against it; I even called her name a few times. I couldn’t hear any movement from inside. Even so, I knocked on the door again, hoping she’d come to answer it at last.

  No such luck. Frustrated, I turned around to get going. I let out a loud gasp when I discovered that Sophie was standing at the top of the stairs, smiling at me.

  She giggled, amused. “Sorry! I didn’t realize you were so jumpy!”

  I caught my breath, banging my fist against my chest. The chick had really scared me, which was now embarrassing. “I’m not jumpy. I just didn’t hear you come up the stairs. How long have you been standing there?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “About thirty seconds. I was curious to see if you were going to try the handle. The door’s unlocked, you know.”

  “Is it?” I turned around and glanced at it.

  “Yes.” She crossed the short space between the stairs and her apartment. She grabbed the knob and opened the front door, but she didn’t enter. Instead, she faced me. I was just standing there, next to her, looking at her dumbly. I was relieved that she was back and unhurt, but also still surprised that she had turned up so suddenly, not to mention so quietly. I hadn’t heard a sound that had suggested someone was in the building. I glanced down at her feet. She was wearing red Converse sneakers. I guess you could walk very quietly with those. But what about the door to the building? It usually made a lot of noise when someone entered. I heard it slamming every once in a while when people came and left, and that was when I was in my apartment, not in the stairwell.

  “Oh,” she said and was suddenly digging in her shiny black tote bag. She fished out a red wallet and found a ten-dollar bill that she handed me. “Here. I totally forgot that I owed you money. Sorry about that.”