Armageddon Is Approaching. The End Is Near.
Turning back from the window, his eyes scanned the apartment he shared with Alex Santos. The loft was open and spacious, with hardwood floors and exposed-brick walls that had at one time comprised the frame of a textile mill. Synapse, the art gallery and studio Alex owned, was on the ground floor of the building, but Brian preferred working here in the sun-filled loft. He returned to the sketch pad he’d laid on the coffee table when he’d heard the music outside. The drawing didn’t look like much yet, just a series of grayed lines and shadows. It was the bare bones he put on paper first, and in his mind’s eye he could see how the drawing would take shape.
Before he’d met Alex—before he’d gotten clean—his artwork had been harsher and unrefined. Thirteen years his senior and already a successful, nationally renowned photographer, Alex had been his mentor. He’d guided Brian’s raw talent and forced him to challenge himself on both artistic and personal levels. When Brian had finally decided to stop using for good, it was Alex who’d been there for him.
The door to the loft opened. Alex entered, his gray-flecked hair wet from his morning run in the humid climate. His cocoa-brown eyes fastened on Brian, who now sat on the leather couch with the sketch pad on his lap and a charcoal pencil in his left hand. Alex walked over to press a kiss on top of his head.
“You’re dripping on my sketch.”
“Sorry.” He grinned and headed toward the well-equipped kitchen. Alex was a stellar cook, another thing for which Brian realized he was fortunate.
“Guess who I ran into?” Alex called. Brian heard him removing what he assumed was the pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice from the refrigerator.
“Who?”
“Rain, sitting at a table in the French Market.” Alex returned to the living area. He selected a chocolate croissant from a basket on the table to have with his juice. “I reminded her about your opening tomorrow night.”
Brian looked up from the sketch. “Don’t you think that might be a little weird? I mean, Trevor’s going to be there.”
“Why would it be weird?”
“She’s part of his investigation.”
Alex shrugged. “It’s not like they have to talk shop.”
Brian had told Alex in confidence about taking Trevor to meet Rain, and about the possibility that one of her show’s callers was responsible for a string of murders, including one committed recently in New Orleans.
“Remember, they’re trying to avoid any mention of a serial killer getting out to the press,” he said. “I hope you didn’t tell anyone.”
“Well, now, you tell me. And I just got off the phone with the bureau chief at the Times-Picayune.”
Brian rolled his eyes at Alex’s sarcasm and returned his attention to his work. Putting his breakfast down, Alex studied the drawing.
“That’s good,” he said, watching as Brian worked.
“Good enough for Synapse?”
Pride was evident in Alex’s voice. “I know talent, Brian.”
“I’m a little freaked about the show.”
“You’re worried about the critics who’ll be there, waiting to malign your work? Or the fact that your big brother will finally be meeting me?”
“Alex…”
“We’ve been together for almost two years. I just think it’s odd I haven’t so much as laid eyes on the guy, that’s all.”
“He doesn’t come around much,” Brian said quietly. “You’ll meet him tomorrow night.”
“He won’t like me. He’s a homophobe, and I’m hardly in the closet.”
When Brian gave him a look, Alex raised his eyebrows. “What? You said as much yourself.”
“That’s definitely not what I said.” Brian put down the sketch, unsure of how to explain his complicated relationship with his brother. Restless, he went to look back out the window. The musicians were making out like bandits, their instrument cases filling with coins and paper bills. The doomsayer had wandered off, replaced by a street artist who’d set up his easel not far from the band, hoping to glean business from the gathering crowd. For a while, Brian had supported his habit doing pencil drawings of tourists for cash. He would avoid getting stoned until he’d made enough money, then head out to the edges of Storyville to score. At his lowest, he’d even turned a trick or two in order to buy heroin or cocaine, his drugs of choice. But that had been before Alex and it was part of a past he wanted to forget. He stared at the gold band on his left hand. All that seemed like someone else’s life now. Brian knew how lucky he was to be alive and healthy.
“I don’t think it’s about me being gay,” he said, still gazing out the window. “It’s about me being an addict. Trevor tried like hell to get me clean.”
Alex came to stand behind him, and Brian drew a breath before speaking again. “It was before I met you. Trevor took a leave from work, came down here and literally kicked my ass. He dragged me kicking and screaming into a rehab facility, a private one in Baton Rouge that cost him a lot of money.”
Alex’s arms went around his waist, and his chin rested against Brian’s shoulder. “What happened?”
“I bailed on the program the first chance I got. When I was high, nothing mattered but staying that way. After I ran away from the center, Trevor kind of gave up on me. I don’t think he knew what else to do. The last time I saw him, we said some pretty awful things to each other.”
“Like what?”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
Framed photos sat on an end table—pictures of Alex’s parents and sister in Puerto Rico, images of Annabelle and Haley, and one of Brian’s deceased mother, Sarah. Brian picked up a recent shot Alex had taken of him with Annabelle. They stood together at a street fair in Annabelle’s Marigny neighborhood. Trevor’s absence was like a physical pain, a yawning hole in their family that had been left unfilled. There was so much Alex didn’t know, things Brian was unsure he’d ever be able to share with him.
He replaced the photo. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Sure.” Alex took Brian’s hand and looked down at his charcoal-smudged fingers.
“But this brother of yours. Is he half as hot as you?” His smile was mischievous, and Brian knew he was trying to lift his somber mood.
“Because if he is…”
Alex left the statement hanging and Brian graced him with a halfhearted laugh. He pulled his hand away and went off in search of his other art supplies.
“I’d be careful. He carries a gun.”
“And handcuffs? Please, God, let there be handcuffs.”
He barely dodged the croissant Brian picked up from the table and launched in his direction before leaving the room.
If you looked at it long enough, the West Indies-style cottage could take on human qualities. The two large windows in front were like eyes, the vertical slash of the door a nose, and the wide porch a mouth with even, white-planked teeth. It was something Trevor and Annabelle had discussed often as children, their young imaginations ripe.
Trevor knocked on the door, then turned the handle and found it unlocked. He went hesitantly inside, intending to call out for Annabelle and Haley. But his throat felt constricted, his nerves still jangled by the unexpected run-in with his father.
The interior was more cluttered than the night he’d been over for dinner. Toys were scattered around the front room and a worn, crocheted afghan lay bunched on the sofa. A half-empty juice glass and a cereal bowl in a ring of milk sat on the coffee table. Haley’s breakfast, no doubt.
This house had secrets. Every corner revealed some part of his life Trevor had worked to push from his mind. His eyes traveled to a closet in the hallway. Don’t think about it, he told himself, but the images were closing in. He’d put Annabelle and Brian inside that closet, warned them to stay quiet as James Rivette’s thunderous voice filled the house. The rest of the memory came flooding back. His mother’s pleas from the kitchen, and the sound of fist hitting flesh. He’d run th
en, wedging his own thin body between his parents and bracing himself for the hurricane force of his father’s rage.
Trevor ran his hand over his forearm. He felt the slight ridge in the bone where the break had healed. That time, he’d been eight years old.
He went down the hallway and past the bedroom’s half-open door. The shower ran in the bathroom, although he barely heard it. His concentration was on the memories that tugged at his mind.
James and Sarah’s bedroom had been on the main floor, the children’s located upstairs. The boys shared the larger room and Annabelle had the small, atticlike space with a ceiling that leaned in under the slant of the house’s gabled roof. Unable to stop himself, Trevor climbed the narrow staircase. When he reached the top, he saw that his and Brian’s old bedroom now appeared to be inhabited by Haley. Their bunk beds were replaced by a single twin with a patchwork quilt and eyelet dust ruffle. A braided-rag rug covered the hardwood floor, and a bookshelf sat against the far wall, lined with stuffed animals and dolls.
It all looked so normal.
Trevor turned, seeing the closed door to the room that had once belonged to Annabelle. Gathering his courage, he moved closer. He slowly twisted the glass knob and pushed open the door.
The room was mostly empty now, used for storage. Boxes bearing his sister’s neat handwriting were stacked inside, labeled as Christmas decorations and Haley’s baby clothes.
The image came at him instantly, stunning him like a physical blow. His father turning to look at him, still in his uniform, his eyes like twin stagnant pools. Annabelle, her face hidden behind her hands.
Don’t you know how to knock, boy?
He closed the door, his heart hammering.
“Trevor?” Annabelle stood in the hallway behind him. She wore a thick bathrobe, and her hair was damp and curling around her face. “I got out of the shower and saw your car outside—”
Her voice halted and her eyes flickered to the closed door before moving back to his face.
“Did he come here?” Trevor demanded. “Don’t lie to me.”
“You’re trembling.” She reached for him. “Let’s go back downstairs.”
He shrugged off her touch and paced the hall. “He was at my hotel this morning, Anna.”
Sliding her hands inside the pockets of her robe, she sighed in resignation. “He came by yesterday, looking for you. But he’s never been here before, I swear. He leaves us alone.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Are you all right?”
She nodded. “I didn’t want to upset you. Haley answered the door, and I didn’t want to make a scene. He was here for only a minute and then he went on his way.”
“Keep your doors locked from now on, you hear me? I was able to just walk in here.”
“Haley forgets sometimes. We’ll be more careful.”
“That’s not good enough. You’re going to file a restraining order when the courthouse opens on Monday.”
“He isn’t a threat anymore. He’s older, and all those years of drinking and smoking—”
“Christ. And you feel sorry for him?”
“Of course not,” she answered, defensive. “I just refuse to let him—what he did to us—rule my life anymore.”
She gazed at him, her eyes soft. “Can’t you see? He’s stolen enough from all of us already. I’m not going to let him show up here and disrupt my life. I won’t give him that power.”
Trevor felt a pressure on his lungs that made it hard to breathe. His presence had brought James Rivette back to this house. That thought alone was enough to justify his years of staying away.
“Trevor, he stole you,” Annabelle whispered.
“I should’ve stopped him from hurting you.”
“You did. I promise, he never touched me again.”
He shook his head. “I should’ve known sooner.”
It was the reason Annabelle rarely bore the burden of their father’s wrath. He’d thought it was because she was so good, so innocent, that even a bastard like James Rivette couldn’t bring himself to harm her. He’d been incredibly naive.
Annabelle took a step closer. “He nearly killed you.”
He looked again at the closed door. What he’d been told about that day had been in opposition to the splintered memories that had resurfaced, whip-shot images that were too brief to hold on to but still left behind questions he couldn’t shake.
“It’s okay,” Annabelle said gently. She put her arms around him. Trevor flinched and tried to pull away, but she held tight, refusing to let go.
He felt dampness on his cheeks and realized he was crying.
11
A black easel sat in the foyer, bearing a placard with a single statement in elegant typeface:
Synapse Introduces the Art of Brian Rivette
The strains of a jazz piano floated above the conversation as Rain entered the gallery, impressed as always by its gleaming hardwood floors and high ceilings. A tuxedoed waiter stopped alongside her with a tray of champagne glasses. She selected one and took a sip, her eyes scanning the stylish crowd. Rain wore a simple slip dress of gray silk with a matching wrap that drifted around her bare shoulders. A square-cut amethyst hung on a delicate chain around her neck, and she touched the pendant absently as she stopped in front of Brian’s first piece. It was an oil on canvas entitled simply Woman, painted in a loose style that added a suggestion of movement and voluptuousness.
“What do you think?” Alex appeared next to her, dressed in dark slacks and an open-necked white shirt.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “I’ve always loved Brian’s pencil drawings and watercolors, but I can see he’s equally gifted with oils.”
“It’s a new medium for him, but his style is exquisite. I couldn’t resist putting a few into the show.” He smiled, his dimples deepening. “Of course, I could be biased.”
“You? Never.”
She gave her friend’s arm an affectionate squeeze as they studied the painting together. After a few moments, Alex added, “You look lovely, by the way. Dolce and Gabbana?”
“St. Peter Thrift Shop,” Rain corrected wryly. “I think the fashionable term is vintage.”
More guests arrived, and Alex, always the exuberant host, went to greet them. He returned to Rain’s side as she made her way to another of Brian’s pieces, a somber watercolor that captured the fogged blues and grays of a rainy New Orleans street. Entitled Monday on Dauphine, the work was exceptional, with the storefronts reflecting back the luminosity of the rain in their windows and the puddles on the sidewalk acting as mirrors to the scene.
“Where’s David?” Alex inquired. “Parking the beloved Jaguar?”
Rain caught the contempt in his voice. “We broke up several months ago.”
“That’s what you keep telling me, but I don’t think he got the memo.” He glanced suspiciously around the room. “Wherever you are, I swear he’s lurking nearby. I think he considers you his property, as much as that damn car.”
“Speaking of cars, I saw the Audi Brian was driving. That’s quite a birthday gift.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
She decided to spare Alex the details of her confrontation with David two nights earlier. Instead, she took another sip of champagne, her eyes drawn to the other side of the gallery. Trevor Rivette stood close to an attractive, dark-haired woman. His companion said something to him, and her hand rested on his shoulder.
Rain lowered her eyes. She’d expected him to be here, but she was surprised by how disappointed she was that he’d brought a date. He wore dark slacks and a V-neck summer sweater he’d pushed up on his forearms, a different look from the conservative business clothes she’d seen him in previously. The sweater displayed his athletic build, and his thick hair looked burnished under the gallery lights. He was drinking only Perrier, and Rain watched as he tilted the bottle to his lips and swallowed. She blushed when she realized Alex had caught her appraisal.
“I hear you’ve met Brian’s b
rother?”
Rain nodded without giving further detail, since she wasn’t sure how much information Alex had been privy to through Brian. She and David had been instructed not to discuss the possible connection between Midnight Confessions and the serial murder investigation.
“He’s different from Brian,” Alex mused. “Gorgeous, obviously, but a little intense for my tastes.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He’s thirty-four, single, he has a law degree from Georgetown, and he’s been with the FBI for seven years,” he recounted. “Brian seems to worship the ground he walks on.”
“Do you like him?”
“I actually just met him.”
When she gave him a surprised look, he added, “Apparently, big brother doesn’t make it back to New Orleans often. He’s a bit estranged from the family.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted, frowning. “My understanding is that he went to Maryland to live with an aunt and uncle there when he was a teenager. Brian won’t talk about whatever happened.”
She followed Alex’s gaze. He looked at Brian, who was in discussion with a silver-haired, goateed man Rain knew to be a serious art collector.
“All he’s ever said is that their father was an abusive son of a bitch, and Trevor took the brunt of it,” Alex continued. “Their mother died a few years ago. She was drunk and fell down a flight of stairs.”
Rain stared into the golden liquid in her glass. “How terrible.”
“Annabelle doesn’t say much about the situation, either.”
“Annabelle?”
“Brian’s sister.”
Rain glanced again at the woman standing next to Trevor, the resemblance dawning on her. She knew through Alex that Brian had a sister who did the bookkeeping at Synapse, although they’d never met. She had a young daughter, too, if Rain recalled correctly.
“Enough of this depressing talk,” Alex proclaimed, taking her arm. “Tonight is about having fun. And making Brian rich and famous, of course.”
Guiding her toward a group of art patrons, he whispered, “Be warned, I’m not above using your celebrity to impress a few checkbook-carrying guests.”
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