Honestly, I’m not sure how Liam feels about me. One moment he’s kind and gentle, and in the next, it seems that the only thing he cares about is how far he can test the limits of my body. And even when he’s kind, I don’t know how to take it—is it because he’s just trying to compensate for his ferocity? Does it even have anything to do with me?
It doesn’t matter. I’ve seen his tenderness and, regardless of the reason behind it, it’s real.
Last night changed things.
It’s a disarming realization. Because it was easier when Liam was nothing more than a hard-bodied criminal. And now that I know there are deep cracks in his tough exterior, now that I realize that Liam would pay an emotional price for my vengeance—it makes me falter.
If I hurt him, then who does that make me? What does that make me? Could I live with myself, knowing that I caused someone that kind of pain?
“You have a backup plan, right?” I say nervously into the phone.
“What are you talking about?” Miranda snaps. “What, do you think you can’t convince him? You’re not giving yourself enough credit, April. You’re a babe. A guy would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind in order to say no to you.”
I turn on the machine and then pour in the water, my mind reeling as the stream begins to trickle into the small plastic pot.
“I’m just wondering,” I say slowly, “if maybe it would be better to approach the Hawthornes directly after all. Like in the original plan.”
Miranda is silent for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is quiet and deadly.
“This plan’s already in motion, April. Do you know what it would take to stop it now? Do you have any clue?” There’s a pause on the line, and then Miranda says, “Oh my God. You’ve gotten cold feet, haven’t you?”
“That’s not true,” I say defensively.
But Miranda ignores me. “I can’t believe you,” she hisses. “Have you forgotten why you’re here? Have you forgotten your parents?”
“Of course not.”
The coffee pot fills with a final hiss, but I leave it untouched. Suddenly I’m not thirsty anymore. My throat is pounding.
“So tell me, because I’m dying to know—why are you suddenly asking for a different plan?” Miranda demands.
“It’s just that…” I begin, being careful to choose the right words. “I don’t think Liam is quite who we thought he was.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? He’s still a criminal, April. He may not have been involved with your mom and dad’s situation, but I’ve looked into him and things seem shifty. Believe me, he’s no better than his parents.”
“What’s shifty? What did you find?” I ask quickly.
But Miranda ignores me again.
“I need you to get your shit together, April,” she snaps. “You keep telling me that you’re handling this on your own out there, but it really doesn’t sound like you are.”
“I am,” I insist.
“Then prove it to me,” she challenges me. “Look, I’m really pissed off right now, and I should go before I say something I regret. I’m going to go get a pina colada, watch the pool boy from my window, and try to calm down. When we talk later, you better have your head on straight.”
She hangs up.
I put the phone down and shakily pick up the pot of coffee. The hot liquid spatters on the desk as I fill my mug. In what’s becoming a habit at this point, my eyes lift to my assorted notes taped to the wall.
The notice for the gallery reception catches my eye. I take a step closer to re-read the words. It’s taking place later this afternoon in the French Quarter. Mrs. Hawthorne will be there to say a few words of welcome at the start of the reception. And it’s open to the public.
I hadn’t originally planned on going. But now, suddenly, it seems like a little reconnaissance wouldn’t hurt. Just as long as I keep to the sidelines and stay out of sight. Perhaps I’ll overhear something useful.
And what about the Benzes? I move determinedly over to their section of the wall. They knew more than they were telling, I’m certain of it. Maybe if I bring Riley along again, they’ll be more inclined to open up. And if I need to, maybe I’ll even tell them who I really am.
It’s a risk, but I’m willing to take it.
After all—if Miranda’s not going to even try to find an alternate option, then I’ll have to do it on my own.
7
The Oscan Art Gallery is easy to miss at first, tucked between a jewelry boutique and a rare books shop on Toulouse Street. The entrance itself is unassuming: a single wooden door, flanked by lavender-hued shutters.
By the time I arrive, the building is already jostling with activity. Men and women sip champagne from plastic coupes and murmur thoughtfully in front of walls covered in black and white photographs.
I squeeze through the guests, nudging myself deeper into the gallery. My eyes scan the crowd urgently, searching for Mrs. Hawthorne. I’ll feel at ease once I know where she is—and therefore how far away I should be, so I can stay under the radar.
“Champagne?” A perky college student appears suddenly before me with a tray of filled glasses. She looks barely old enough to drink herself.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I say politely, shaking my head. The girl flits away. I continue pushing forward, walking determinedly as if I know where I’m going. As if I have a clue.
I make it all the way to the back wall of the gallery without catching sight of Mrs. Hawthorne. I decide to wait there for a little while, in between two larger-than-life photographs of what seem to be piles of trash. Upon taking a closer look, I realize that it’s not actually trash at all, but an array of survival supplies: coils of rope, a half-eaten bag of dried strawberries, a leaky plastic bladder of water.
The other photographs lining the walls follow the same theme: the sharp blade of an axe, crusted with dirt, laying beside a chunk of freshly-split wood. A man, photographed from behind. His head is turned downward, slightly to the left. The light casts long shadows across his tense, muscular back. The photo reminds me vaguely of the notion of strength.
There’s a burst of laughter to my left. My eyes flick over to a group of gray-haired men dressed in golf shorts, chuckling together. Their wives linger nearby. Heavy pearls droop from their earlobes. One of them catches me watching; she peels back her scarlet lips into a disingenuous grin.
A bell begins to tinkle from somewhere in the middle of the room. It’s quiet at first, and then quickly grows louder, ringing through the chatter of the crowd. The voices around me quickly start to fade. Heads begin to turn.
I follow their gaze towards the front of the gallery. A white-haired woman stands there, partially obscured by the other guests. I see her in bursts as people cross back and forth in front of her: her beaked nose and flaring nostrils, her ramrod straight posture. The jewels on her finger flash in the sunlight as she brings her coupe of champagne up to her pursed lips.
Mrs. Hawthorne.
A gallery attendant hurriedly drags some kind of miniature white platform across the floor. He offers her a hand, but she disregards it, stepping up onto the platform by herself. She looks down appraisingly onto the hushed crowd.
“Hello, hello,” she says in a reedy but clear voice. “I’m so pleased to welcome you all here today. This reception is a special one—not simply because we’re celebrating a talented young photographer, Mr. Irving Schoeller—“ She gestures to a slightly pudgy, goateed man standing in the corner, who smiles abashedly as the crowd golf-claps for him. Mrs. Hawthorne continues: “But also because today marks the tenth birthday of the Oscan Gallery.”
Another round of golf claps.
“When Pentunia, the founder, first approached me ten years ago about this exciting new endeavor…” she begins to drone.
I glance around the room. Everyone is looking up at Mrs. Hawthorne with rapt attention. Everyone except a familiar red-haired woman standing a few feet to Mrs. Hawthorne’s left, who is typing something urgently
into her phone. After a few seconds of this, she glances up at Mrs. Hawthorne and gives her a tiny nod. Mrs. Hawthorne’s eyes seem to twinkle at this, but her lips continue moving, going on with her speech as if this strange exchange is simply nonexistent.
Curious.
Keeping close to the wall, I edge my way toward the red-haired woman, hoping that I might see or overhear something useful. I come to a stop when I am a few feet behind her, just as the crowd around us bursts into applause. Mrs. Hawthorne has finished her speech.
As Mrs. Hawthorne descends from the platform, the red-haired woman immediately springs forward. She leans forward and murmurs something into Mrs. Hawthorne’s ear.
I take a step closer and tilt my ear toward the pair of them, but it’s impossible to hear what they’re saying. The gallery is filling once again with the sounds of chatter and polite laughter.
“Barbara!” a man cries, shoving his way in front of me. My vision is suddenly filled with a head of thinning black hair.
“Leonardo. How nice to see you. I’m so glad that you could make it,” Mrs. Hawthorne says indifferently. And then, as if realizing she’s being watched, her eyes suddenly shift over the man’s shoulder—right in my direction.
My heart flies into my throat. I whirl around, pretending to suddenly be very interested in this photo of broken tree branches on the wall.
It’s a possibility that Mrs. Hawthorne won’t recognize me—my entire one-on-one interaction with her lasted less than five minutes, after all—but it’s better to play it safe.
It seems to be a delicate effort, balancing risk and safety. I am quickly learning that there is a tradeoff between the two. And only increasing measures of risk will lead me to the information I need. My fingers curl into my palms, balling up into fists. I stare into the criss-crossed pattern of branches in front of me, losing myself in a swirl of frustrated thoughts.
“Striking, isn’t it?” a high, reedy voice says into my ear.
I stiffen.
Mrs. Hawthorne steps forward. I look around for the red-haired woman or Leonardo, hoping that perhaps she was actually talking to them, but they have vanished.
No, it’s me she’s interested in.
She looks up at the print in front of us, her lip curling.
“I helped pick this one out, actually,” she says. “It’s not customary for the trustees to participate in the gallery’s curation process, of course. But I had something of a personal interest in this artist. He was my own discovery. I happened to come across his work during a visit with the President of the Fine Arts Academy—you know the one, down on Magazine Street—and I was absolutely mesmerized.” She tilts her chin upward, better to take in the sight of the photograph. “This was the first photograph of his that I ever saw. It’s always been my favorite.”
She speaks unhurriedly, her voice a comfortable sing-song. I watch her uneasily. This is not a woman known for her affability—so what’s the deal? Why is she talking to me like we’re old friends?
Mrs. Hawthorne glances over at me, as if expecting a response.
“It’s v-very nice,“ I stammer out nervously.
“Nice doesn’t begin to encompass it,” she scoffs. She takes a step closer to the photograph, her fingers pointing softly. “See the rings in the exposed wood. They’re obscured by the jagged cuts, but the effect is like an undulating motion.”
Her hand drops. She looks at me, the photograph forgotten behind her.
“There’s something powerful about it. It speaks to the notion of eternality. No—of imperviousness,” she says, reconsidering. “You can saw into the wood, or twist it, or snap it in half. But still, whether as sawdust or splinters, it continues to exist in some form. It persists, despite all best efforts.”
There’s a bite in her voice. Why do I have the nagging feeling that she’s not talking about the wood?
My breath turns shallow as she moves uncomfortably close. If I stumbled forward, I would knock into her.
“Don’t think that I don’t remember your face,” she says quietly. Her tone is restrained, polite. But there’s a menace simmering just barely beneath the surface. “You came to my home, claiming that my son invited you and bringing up old unpleasantries. And now here you are again. Why? What do you want?”
“I’m just here for the art,” I lie quickly. “I didn’t know that you would be here.”
“I don’t believe you,” she snaps. Someone waves at her, and she waves back genteelly, while continuing to speak to me through clenched teeth. “Who are you?”
“My name is Sophia Moore,” I reply. My voice is trembling. “I don’t even live here. I’m just visiting.”
“I’ve met a hundred others just like you before, Miss Moore. Following my family. Sniffing around,” she says. “Who hired you?”
“No one hired me,” I say breathlessly. “What are you talking about?”
Her eyes bore into mine, searching for the truth. I summon my best poker face and try not to blink, but almost immediately my eyes begin to water. I can feel my heart racing, sending shockwaves of adrenaline all the way out to my fingertips. But I keep my body still, determined not to show any indication that my story is a lie. One false move and she’ll know, I’m sure of it—
And then—a saving grace. The red-haired woman swoops behind us and taps Mrs. Hawthorne on the shoulder.
“Ma’am, Petunia would like to speak with you about scheduling the next trustee meeting,” she says.
Mrs. Hawthorne breaks her gaze with me at last, turning toward the red-haired woman.
“Fine. Tell her I’ll be there in just a minute.” Mrs. Hawthorne waits until the woman has hurried away to relay the message, and then snaps her head back toward me.
“I don’t know who you are yet, but trust me when I say I’ll find out. In the meantime,” Mrs. Hawthorne says, moving closer, “stay away from my son. Or else I promise you’ll wish you had listened to me.”
And with that, she strides away, leaving me shaking and breathless in the middle of the gallery floor. A group of women swarm around me, moving in to examine the photograph. One of them says something, but in my panic-stricken haze, I can’t hear the words. The rest of the women burst in giggles, totally unaware of the black storm descending around me. Of the heavy, suffocating weight that fills my lungs. The thinning breath. The panic setting in.
It’s only after I shove my way to the door and stumble onto the sidewalk when I finally start to breathe again. I gulp in the cool afternoon air as my mind casts about desperately, trying to process what’s just happened.
What does Miranda do in this situation, when the person she’s conning tells her that they’re onto her?
Is this it?
Is it over?
No. It can’t be, I think wildly. There are still so many questions left unanswered.
My hands tremble as they dig inside my purse for my car keys. Eric and Kimberly Benz. They may still be too frightened to speak with me, but I’ll do whatever it takes to convince them. I’ll give them my real name, my whole story—whatever they need. I need to learn what they know.
I know that something is wrong before I’ve even arrived. A thick, gray haze hangs low over the street. The air smells acrid; I wrinkle my nose.
As I turn onto the familiar block where the Benzes live, that’s when I see it. My foot slams on the brakes.
The Benzes’ little green cottage is wreathed in flames. The fire violently spits out red-hot embers into the air. Black fumes billow up to the sky, noxious and thick. There’s a crackling sound, a kind of sizzling that I can hear even from here—the sound of scorching wood, of a lifetime of memories vanishing into smoke.
The sound of sirens can be heard faintly in the distance. The Benzes’ neighbors have spilled out onto the street, but there’s nothing anyone can do but watch helplessly. My eyes scan desperately for the familiar faces of Eric and Kimberly, but they’re nowhere to be found.
But that could mean anything, right? They could ha
ve found shelter at a neighbor’s house. Maybe they’re inside right now, clutching mugs of tea and waiting for the fire department to arrive
A smaller, darker voice pipes up in the back of my head. Or maybe they’ve been hurt…
A shiver runs through me. I gaze up at the scene as a sense of dread swells inside of me. As clearly and suddenly as though someone spoke into my ear, I know the truth of what’s happened here.
The Hawthornes know they talked.
8
“April, slow down. What are you saying? What’s on fire?” Riley says, blinking from behind his glasses. He’s sitting behind the counter in his bookstore, a hardcover now laying forgotten in his lap. A bearded man perusing the “New Inventory” section stares blankly at me, apparently unsure what to make of the girl who’s just slammed through the front door.
I move in closer and lower my voice, so that only Riley can hear. “The Benzes’ house. I just drove by and it’s on fire, Riley. The Hawthornes are the cause, I’m certain of it.”
He leaps to his feat. The book slides off his lap and falls to the ground with a thud.
“Are they all right? Kim and Eric, I mean?” he asks urgently.
“I don’t know,” I say, feeling helpless. “On the way over here, I called the Urgent Care on Harrison Avenue and told them I was a relative, but they said they didn’t have any patients named Benz. Same with the Tulane Medical Center. And East Jefferson General Hospital.” Tears fill my eyes, threatening to spill down my cheeks. My voice drops to a whisper. “And I called the county morgue. They’re not there, either.”
“Maybe they’re with family, somewhere safe,” Riley says hopefully, but his tone falters.
“Maybe,” I echo. “But God, Riley, what if they’re not? What if something happened to them? What if the Hawthornes have them?”
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