by Selena Kitt
* * * *
I woke up on a chartered plane over the Atlantic, twisting on the couch and reaching for my gun that wasn't there. Felicia sat in one of the reclining chairs on the opposite wall of the plane, her eyes closed, her perfect, lovely face angelic in repose. The drone of the plane buzzed around me. We were alone except for each other. I sat up and looked around, trying to shake the cold feeling that stole around me, telling me to find a weapon, any weapon, but we were on a plane and weapons were few and far between. For the first time since I'd boarded Malcolm's yacht, I felt truly unsafe without it. Naked. Haunted.
What if he comes back? I'd told Malcolm. It was the first time I'd ever told anyone my deepest fear. The fear that not even death would keep the ghosts at bay. Putting it out in words didn't rob it of its power at all. It just made it creepier.
My father. The root of my problems. He used to come into my room late at night, after he'd tried to drink the voices away. Sometimes he stood by my bedside and babbled, long weird strings of words that made no sense, demon names and Bible verses. Other times he would say nothing. Just stare. And sometimes he would cut me.
Not often. Not too often. Just often enough.
To let the evil out.
I still dreamed bad dreams and woke up in cold sweats. If I'd been able to keep a dog in my apartment on my shitty schedule, I would have had the biggest, meanest dog that ever lived. I'd have fed it steaks and kept it on my bed, just in case. Just in case. I had a gun instead, and cold comfort it was, though it was comfort all the same.
But Malcolm... in the middle of the ocean with him, with his hands on my body, the sun warming me, the sea breeze whipping my cares away, all our problems left behind on the shore... with Malcolm my fear had faded. I retained the habit, but there had been no drive behind it.
The betrayal of my family, my father's insanity, my mother's inability—or unwillingness—to keep me safe, had faded in the bright sun, in the warm breeze. The bones of the past bleached out at sea and crumbled to ash in the fire of our mutual desire.
Now that Malcolm was gone, I wasn't safe any more. And if he had been telling the truth about his secretary, there was one more person out in the world looking to destroy, to betray. If Malcolm had been telling the truth, he wasn't safe, even in jail. Hell, I probably wasn't safe.
What if Don suspected something? What if he did know Malcolm knew about his betrayal? What if he thought I knew where Malcolm had hidden his proof of Don's malfeasance? What if he knew where to find the evidence? He'd known Malcolm for a lot longer than I had. If anyone guessed accurately, it would be him...
No. No, I had no proof of any of that, had no proof even that Malcolm had been telling the truth, either. All I knew about Don was what Malcolm had told me, and what small things I had learned while I spoke with him on the phone, and he hadn't given any indication that he thought Malcolm had figured him out. Had he?
...Shit, I'd been too drunk to remember properly. Mostly I had a vague impression of being shouted at for no good reason and treated like I didn't have two brain cells to rub together.
He's not crazy.
The words came floating up to me from the depths of my memory.
Oh. Right. Now I remembered. He'd thought I was a woman hoping to exploit a rich but vulnerable man for her own gain. Not only had he thought it, but he had said it out loud. Admittedly he had been under quite a bit of stress at that point, what with Malcolm allegedly skipping the country right before all his plans were to come to fruition...
I bit my lip. He's not crazy. That meant that Don thought Malcolm was just acting a part, whereas I was now not so sure. Where did that leave me?
Lying on my fainting couch, feeling like shit and pining for a man that I'm suddenly not certain is really real. I wanted the Malcolm I knew to be the real Malcolm. I cared about him, or the man I thought I knew. Our time together, floating on the sea—it all seemed like a dream already, something that had happened to someone else, in another time and place. Was what we shared real, or had he only been manipulating me? The snatches of our interactions in my memory could have gone either way, it seemed...
I bit my lip, hard. What did it matter? I had to choose if I was going to believe him or believe his secretary, the FBI, the CIA, the Turkish Coast Guard, and, probably by now, the press. And if I knew anything about any of those guys, I'd go with Malcolm any day.
Which left me with one option: I had to get him out of prison. I couldn't let him waste away in there. He still had to finish his Masterpiece.
And I'd seen his attempts at art. There was something there.
I lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling of the plane, my mind chasing itself around in circles.
I was no closer to figuring out what I should do when we reached New York and Felicia finally woke up.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” I said to her as the plane began its descent and she blinked around the cabin, clearly trying to remember where she was. She shot me a glare.
“Oh, shut up, Sadie,” she told me. “If you only knew how many nights of sleep I've been missing because you decided to get yourself pretend-kidnapped or whatever, off running around the world without even sending me a text, which, by the way, is totally rude because you're my personal assistant and you have a lot of vacation saved up, so you could have just told me you were taking your vacation days instead of letting me worry about it... You know the feds came and talked to me? They wanted to know if you'd talked to me at all about Malcolm, or if you'd left me a message or contacted me since you were kidnapped...” She trailed off. “What was my point?”
“I think you were trying to say you were tired.”
“Right! I am tired. And you are sunburned. Don't you know that's a great way to get cancer?
I shrugged. “I'll live.” It felt good to banter with her as if nothing had happened. Being as exasperating as possible to Felicia was always one of my favorite past times, and now it made the ache in my chest and the lump in my throat recede a little.
“You're impossible,” she told me.
Oh yeah. That was the stuff. Feed me, Felicia. “Sorry. I have a lot on my mind.”
Her face softened. “Yeah. Sorry. There I go, making it all about me again.”
I gave her a little smile. “If that bothered me, we'd have parted ways a long time ago.”
She smiled back, a small, rueful thing before sitting up and stretching. “So,” she said, “want to tell me what you're thinking about?”
I figured I might as well tell her the truth. “Malcolm. And the vase.”
“Ah,” she said. “Right. The embezzler and the broken vase.”
Her words sent a stab of pain through me, unexpected and unwelcome. I shoved it away, hurt and irritated. I'd always supported her, always, even when she was being really stupid, and that was often. But whatever. It wasn't my job to convince her of anything. “Yes. That.”
She rubbed a hand over her mouth, not looking at me. “Yeah,” she said, “I've been thinking about that, too.”
“While you slept?”
“Yes, actually. Specifically the vase. It was broken at the auction, right?”
Yup. That was how this whole thing had started. Just a moment of inattention and boom, you're running from the FBI on a luxury yacht in the Adriatic Sea. I'd been worried about my life getting boring. I was never, ever going to worry about that again. “That's right.”
“In that case, why did he tell you that you could have a broken vase?”
I put my hands over my eyes. “I don't know,” I said. “Malcolm is a troubled guy. He has issues. Maybe he thought it was symbolic.” Was that part of his masterpiece? Leaving me a broken vase? Our relationship come full circle?
Ugh. I love performance art, but when it gets hard to tell the difference between art and life I sometimes wish people would be just a little less obtuse. I once spent a full five minutes at the end of a long, fully packed art show staring at an empty stone bench and wondering if it was an exhib
ition piece or just a nice bench to sit on. Can I sit on this bench? I had wondered. Is it art? Can I sit on it if it's art? I wasn't even drunk. I felt the same way now. Leave me a broken vase? Is it art? Or are you just a dumb motherfucker who I miss so much I could scream?
“You have to go get the vase,” Felicia said, breaking me out of my maudlin thoughts. “He wanted you to have it.”
“Fine,” I said. The pressure of the descending plane was starting to weigh heavily on my head and I worked my jaw to pop my ears. “I don't know where it is though.”
“Start with his house. He couldn't have had everything cleared out.”
“Sure he could have.”
“Fine. But we'll start with his house anyway.”
“Oh, you're coming now?”
She grinned at me. “Hell no. I'm just the brains of this outfit.”
“Okay brainiac, tell me how I get into his house. I don't have a key.”
“Don't worry about that,” she said. “I have lawyers, and so does he.”
I shook my head at her, but I couldn't help but smile. “Look at you. You stopped keeping it real as soon as humanly possible.”
She made a face at me as the plane touched down. “Would keeping it real involve breaking and entering and getting arrested and never saving the grand paramour of your tumultuous affair?”
I wasn't even sure she'd used all the words in that sentence correctly, but, after a moment of sorting through it, I nodded. “Probably,” I said as the plane finally slowed to a stop.
“Then we'll use the lawyers,” she said, and at the front of the plane the pilot hopped out of the cockpit and opened the door and the wild, blustery wind of a New York March gusted inside the plane, wrapping us up in chill and cold, and underneath it the hint of spring.
I was home, but when I'd left, it had been with Malcolm. Now I was returning without him, and I suddenly realized that I had no idea when I would see him again, touch him again, talk to him again.
The hitch and ache in my chest returned with a vengeance and something must have showed in my face because Felicia asked me if I was all right.
I had no words for her. It hurt too much to think.
So I stopped.
Chapter Fifteen
Felicia promised to get the key, and I thanked her. I didn't really know if I wanted the key, or the vase, or any of this drama, but I agreed to spend the intervening time at her house.
So I buried myself in one of the guest beds at her mansion and slept like the dead. Occasionally Felicia or Anton would pop their heads in to see how I was doing or drop off take-out, telling me to keep my strength up. Even Arthur showed up once, seeming genuinely concerned for my well-being up until the moment he told me he needed me to get back on the job because he was swamped like a Long Island beach community.
In the few hours I was awake, I tried to contact Malcolm, but his bail had not been posted. His assets were frozen, and, I suspected, he didn't really want to be sprung from jail anyway. It was just the sort of thing a guy filled with self-loathing and melancholia would eat up, although if he actually went to prison I suspected the experience would begin to pall fairly quickly. His lawyers stonewalled me, and I eventually stopped trying.
Going to see him was out of the question, too, since paparazzi had surrounded both Felicia's house and my apartment. Malcolm was obviously all over the news, and as his “kidnapping victim” so was I, even though kidnapping had been dropped from his charges. Terrible photos of me beamed out across the airwaves and showed up online.
I'd been a genius at helping Felicia defeat the reporters back when she and Anton had been in and out of the tabloids for kinky sex in semi-public, but now that it was me in the spotlight I was utterly helpless. I had no idea how to protect myself. I was slow and stupid from the sun, fucked into a gentle torpor, but also ripped open and rubbed raw, and even after I'd closed the wounds the muscle underneath still needed to heal.
I turned completely inward, focusing on the ache Malcolm had left in me, slowly processing our time together. Torn apart, it felt as though as he had died, all our unspoken words still hanging between us. It was a ridiculous way to feel, but I still wandered the house like a ghost and stepped outside more times than I could count, meaning to suck down a quick cigarette in an attempt to fire my mind out of its sluggish repose, but the moment I did I would remember that I was a sudden celebrity and I would curse and dart back inside. But of course just a second was plenty of time to land me back in the celeb news cycle at least once.
But most of the time I just slept. It was easier than thinking.
On the third night I dreamed about him. We stood naked on the deck of his boat. The sun beat down, but it was nothing in comparison to the heat of his lips on my throat, my mouth, my breasts, his hands on my body. Gently he lifted my arms, holding them out, and with a delicate touch he peeled the tattoos from my skin. Fish and spiders and fire birds slipped away from me, leaving the scars beneath exposed.
Then he lifted each tattoo to the azure sky and, one by one, the sea wind whipped them from his fingers and carried them away.
* * * *
On the morning of the fourth day I awoke and finally felt awake. I descended the stairs, feeling restless, and, drawn by the smell of coffee, wandered into the kitchen.
Felicia wasn't there. There was only Anton, who sat at the table in the breakfast nook reading some dumb business bullshit on his tablet. I still didn't know Anton very well, so I had to force myself into some semblance of levity. Shuffling over to the table, I cocked a hip and put a hand on it.
“I really need a cigarette,” I informed him, my voice rusty with disuse. “Don't you have any secret passageways I can duck into for a smoke?
He didn't look at me right away. That's what I hate about Anton. He's just gotta make everything into some kind of dick swinging contest.
Finally he lifted his eyes to mine. Cool, calm. Unperturbed. “Of course not,” he said.
“What kind of billionaire are you?” I complained. “How can a guy as rich as you not have a secret passage in his house?”
He sipped his coffee and raised a brow. “One who walks around unashamed,” he said.
“What about when the revolution comes? You'll be first up against the wall while the proletariat screams for your head. You'll wish you had a secret passage then. Actually, you should put one in before the revolution happens. You'll thank me when you're ruling a drug cartel in Mexico.” I surprised myself with my little rant. Apparently I was feeling a bit bitter about the world.
Anton was not amused. “And even if I did have a secret passage,” he said, choosing to ignore my dire warnings about the imminent communist overthrow of capitalism, “I would not allow you to smoke in it. It's a filthy habit.”
“You're not the boss of me,” I said.
“Actually I am.”
...Fuck. He was right.
We stared at each other for a moment before he looked back at his tablet and sipped his coffee again. Pulling my best sullen teenager face at his unconcerned face I turned and stalked away.
In the kitchen I poured myself some coffee and stomped around the island, as restless as one of those tigers in cages at the zoo who contract OCD from being cooped up all the time.
Anton ignored me, studying the screen in front of him, as cool and unruffled as a statue of a sphinx, and just as mysterious. It occurred to me that Anton would never let someone betray him the way Malcolm did. Why couldn't I have gotten involved with one of the billionaires who crushed people without regard for sentimentality? It would have been a lot less stressful. I wouldn't have been interrogated by the feds for starters...
But of course I wouldn't have liked Malcolm as much if it weren't for the weird humanity he kept trying to hide and purge from himself as though it were a disease. I would have thought him to be just like every other jack off rich guy.
I'm just dumb, I guess. Always had to pick the complicated ones.
Felicia chose tha
t moment to waltz into the breakfast nook, looking radiant and thoughtful. Her eyes lit up when she spied me, though she didn't mention my recent indisposition. “Good news, Sadie,” she said instead. “The lawyer talks went well. We have achieved a key.” And she held up a lovely coppery key for me to inspect. It dangled from a small silver chain tethered to a realtor key fob.
I inspected it. “That's a key,” I said solemnly.
“And it goes to Malcolm's house,” she replied. “Now you can get in and find the vase.”
“It's probably been swept under a rug or something,” I said. “Works all the time in cartoons.”
Felicia shot me a glare. “Can we please be serious for a moment?” Reluctantly I nodded. She entered the kitchen, reached forward, and grabbed my hand, pressing the key into it. “Good,” she said. “Look, Malcolm told you he wanted you to have that vase. It must have been important to him for you to get it, so I think you should take a car and go over there and see if it’s in his house.”
“And if it's not?” I said. Then a thought occurred to me. “Hey, wait, if you talked to his lawyers and got the key, why didn't you just ask them to ask him where it is?”
A faint stain of color shone on her cheeks for a moment. Anton had put his cup down and was watching her intently. She looked from him to me and back again, then sighed. “I thought, if he really is innocent, maybe he hid a clue in the vase.”
“A clue?”
She nodded.
“In the broken vase?”
She nodded again, though this time she looked uncertain.
“A clue left behind when he was literally going to kill himself rather than expose his pseudo-brother's betrayal? Left in the hopes that someone would look in a bunch of broken vase bits and find a stack of papers a mile high proving the innocence of a dead guy?”
Felicia stomped her foot. “It could happen! And besides, it doesn't have to be paper. He could have hidden it on a disk or something.”
“In the broken vase?”
“Or in the pile of broken vase bits, yes,” she snapped. “So I didn't ask the lawyers directly about it. I just said you needed something from his house. They cleared it with him, and I'm assuming he told them it was fine to give you a key. So here it is.”