The Secret Thief

by Nina Lane

  He turns and leaves. His footsteps echo on the spiral staircase. For a long time, I sit there and breathe, trying to calm the racing of my heart, to suppress the shameful memories. My whole body hurts.

  I straighten my legs out. My elbow bumps against the box. Wary, I tug off the lid and peer at the drawing on top of the stack. My face cloaked by a red hood, locks of hair windblown against my neck. My eyes looking back at me—hard, suspicious, strong.

  With a shaking hand, I leaf through the first few drawings. Again I notice the expertise and technique, clearly the work of an immensely talented artist. On another page, I’m inside an intricate garden maze laden with open flowers and cascading vines, the pathways winding through cultivated hedges and sculptures.

  Recognition prickles the back of my mind. I’ve seen images like this before, in Renaissance etchings and engravings of pleasure gardens, in the chaotic wildness of Hieronymus Bosch paintings, in the beauty and terror of Leonardo’s The Last Judgment. In…

  Like when I first saw the Maria Wood drawing, I can’t link my recognition to a specific source.

  I pick up another drawing. I’m standing in another maze formed within a jungle, huge palm leaves and thick trees cascading over a dark, coursing river. Animals—bright toucans, coiling snakes, agile monkeys—creep around the foliage along with numerous, intricately detailed insects.

  Another close-up sketch of my face—brow furrowed, mouth tense, a fearful glimmer in my eyes. A striking resemblance to the way I’d felt when my world teetered on the edge of collapse.

  I drop the drawings back into the box and get to my feet. The tower has a 360 degree view of the coast, stretching from the ocean around to the grassy fields and woodlands in the distance. No wonder he locks himself away up here all the time. Who wouldn’t want to be surrounded by such beauty?

  I stare at the spot by the wall where I’d stood, imagining him looking down at me from this angle, seeing me put my secret between the rocks.

  After turning back, I pause beside the bookshelf. Stuffed among sci-fi novels and history books, seven picture books sit upright like a row of soldiers, their spines facing outward.

  I touch the spines. A vague memory pushes forth. This was where I’d seen a similar aesthetic—in a picture book. I take the first book off the shelf and look at the author name.

  The truth crashes through me on a wave of pure shock.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “You’re Riley Flynn.” I stop in the kitchen doorway.

  Flynn’s jaw tightens, almost as if he’s not accustomed to being called that. A strange sense of unreality descends over me.

  His gaze goes to the stack of hardcover picture books I’m holding. I open the first book, touching the glossy pages, the elaborate drawings of underground tunnels, seascapes, a cluttered toy room, the pyramids at Giza—all imagined as complex mazes concealing hidden clues to solving the mystery of a lost reflection.

  A dark-haired boy named Westley, distinctive in his green T-shirt and accompanied by a loyal black dog named Tugg, is the reader’s guide and companion through all seven books as he searches for the missing image of himself.

  I turn to the back cover flap. There’s no picture of Flynn, only a short author biography: Riley Flynn has been drawing and studying the art of mazes since he learned the story of Theseus and the Minotaur when he was a boy. He lives on the coast in the Northeast.

  Riley Flynn is also an author/artist who lives at the top of the bestseller lists with his Mirror Mirror books. He’s acclaimed for his intense attention to realistic detail and authenticity. His books are beautiful, elaborate puzzles, enigmas, question marks.

  Not unlike their author.

  “Why…” I lift my eyes to his again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He sighs heavily. “If I could have told anyone, it would have been you. But I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Anonymity.” He stares out the window, his tone bitter. “Privacy. Once something gets out about you, even if it’s not true, it’s all over.”

  Don’t I know it. And how does he know it too? What happened to him?

  “No one in town knows who you are?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “I never forgot that photo of you in the redwoods.” He shifts his gaze back to me warily. “Thought about it every time I drew a forest scene. And I’ve… I haven’t written a book in three years.”

  “I remember reading an article about that in an entertainment magazine.” I close the book, tightening my fingers on the stack. “There was all this hype about your new series, but then it was never published.”

  A short laugh breaks from him. “Yeah, because I never wrote it. After I finished Westley and Tugg’s seventh book, I couldn’t come up with any ideas. That was okay for a while since I didn’t need the money. But fans kept writing to me, and a lot of them were disappointed, so that sucked. And later it turned out I did need the money, so I tried to get back to it, but everything fell flat. Figured I was done.

  “Then I was at the window one morning. I looked down and saw you standing by the wall. That was it. An idea sprouted wings and flew right into my head. I’ve been working on it ever since. That’s why I did all those drawings. Maybe I was using you. I don’t know. I just knew I couldn’t stop.”

  I swallow past the constriction in my throat. “You could have asked me.”

  “No.” He rubs his scruffy jaw, regret weighting his voice. “I was trying too damned hard to stay away from you. And if I’d asked and you’d said no… I was scared I’d never pick up a pencil again.”

  He approaches me, desperation lining his face. “But Christ in heaven, Eve, if I’d thought for one second that my drawings of you were anything like what that bastard did, I never would have done the first sketch. Never. I’m so fucking sorry. I haven’t shown them to anyone, uploaded them anywhere, nothing. And you have them all now, every single one. Please believe me.”

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  “Throw them away, if you want to. Tear them up, burn them. I don’t care. I want…” He steps closer. “I need to make this right for you.”

  I grip the books and stare at the top cover, the picture of Westley gazing into a pond and seeing only the ripples on the surface.

  “How did you know my uncle?” I ask.

  “He was the one who told me to submit my work for publication.”

  I look up. “Really?”

  Flynn nods, the lines of his face softening a bit. “When I first came to Castille, I went to a talk and book signing he gave at the library. Fairy Tales and Magic. After it was over, I was sitting there drawing, and next thing I knew Max was standing next to me. He saw the sketch I was working on… a troll in a forest. He said it looked like an illustration from a Norwegian folktale.”

  “Was it?”

  “Nah. More like a self-portrait.” He lets out a humorless laugh and drags a hand through his hair. “I didn’t want to talk to him. Sure as hell didn’t want him to see my drawings. But he was a persistent old cuss. For whatever reason, he decided we were going to be friends. So we were.”

  Tenderness nudges through the ice in my chest. “Did you take any of his classes at Ford’s?”

  “No. I was just in Castille doing odd jobs, renting a room month to month. Hadn’t planned to stay in the area long. Max and I would get together to play chess or go for a hike. He was a good guy. Talked a lot, but never asked a bunch of questions.

  “He liked my work and kept pushing me to write a fully illustrated story and send it to his publisher. Even told his editor to expect it. Finally I did, mostly to get him off my back. But the publisher came back with an offer, and the Mirror Mirror books got their start. Wouldn’t have happened without Max.”

  Because Max saw something in Flynn no one else had.

  “He talked a lot about you.” Flynn gives me a faint, tender smile. “There was no one he loved more.”

  In fairy tales, t
he thing that is of the highest good is often bathed in a golden, metallic light. For a brief moment, my heart pulses with such a light, glimmering and warm.

  “It was the same for me.” My throat tightens again. “Did you keep in touch with him when he left Castille?”

  “Yes, but when the Mirror Mirror books started taking off, he knew I didn’t want anyone to know. So he kept the secret.”

  Maybe that was why Max had never mentioned Flynn—at least, not to me.

  “Why did you buy his collection?” I ask softly.

  The light in his eyes dims. He stares out the window. Remoteness descends over him, like he’s in some other time.

  “I… when I was a kid, I was into stories about dragons and monsters. Mazes. Used to draw a lot, but stopped when I was a teenager. It wasn’t until I left Minnesota in my early twenties that I took it up again. I was on the road for about three years.

  “And when I came back to Castille, it was just chance that I saw the flyer about Max’s talk at the library. I learned a lot about fairy tales from him. Started incorporating the themes into my work. I guess I thought he wouldn’t like it if his collection ended up in Europe or something. He’d have wanted it back in Castille. I hope.”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what he’d have wanted.”

  His words roll through my mind, coming up against all the questions I’ve had about him, instigating more.

  A drawing of a troll was a self-portrait? He came back to Castille? That means he was here before. Why did he stop drawing when he was a teenager? Why was he on the road for three years?

  An ache pushes at my head. Too many questions. Not enough answers.

  I indicate the Riley Flynn books. “Can I borrow these?”

  “You can keep them.”

  I clasp the books against my chest. “I’m going to go now.”

  “Okay.” He rubs the back of his neck, the distress on his face aging him ten years. “Eve, I’m sorry. Whatever I can do to make it up to you, I will.”

  “I just need to be alone for a while.”

  “Do you remember that note Max gave me?” He spreads his hands out in a plea. “The Hans Christian Andersen quote from The Butterfly. ‘To live, you must have sunshine and freedom, and a little flower to love.’ I’ve spent a lot of years with none of those things. I’ve been okay with that. Deserved it, even. But you… you make me want them. Even believe I could have them. You make anything seem possible.”

  A sound echoes inside me. Is it my heart breaking?

  Still holding the books, I return to the bedroom and change back into my wrinkled clothes. After collecting the rest of my belongings, I drive home. I manage to make it into the house before the tears start. I sink to the floor and cry.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The next morning, I change into my running clothes and hit the trails crisscrossing the woods. I sprint around the trees, my sneakers slamming on the dirt-covered surface.

  Icy air blasts against my face. The crisp smell of pine fills my nose. My breath is fast, my lungs and muscles aching, my heart pounding. I keep going, letting the exertion of my body take over my thoughts.

  But fragments float through my mind like pieces of broken glass.

  Max… mazes… Riley Flynn… trolls… a little flower to love… my body… my face… I can’t offer you anything else… you make me like myself again…

  I cross a two-lane road cutting through the woods and turn onto a new path. Dried leaves carpeting the forest floor crunch under my shoes. The trees are almost all bare. Winter will be here soon.

  I circle around and head back home, keeping my pace rhythmic and strong. I reach the road again and jog along the side to get to the path leading back to Uncle Max’s house. A couple of cars slow and edge into the other lane to pass me.

  Shortening my stride, I look over my shoulder to see if the road is clear to cross. A pick-up truck turns the corner and comes toward me. I ease farther off the road to give the truck room to pass safely before I cross to the trail.

  The driver revs the engine. My heart jolts. This is a country road with clearly marked pedestrian and bike lanes, not a—

  Shit!

  The truck careens past me, tires skidding. The rush of air shoves me off the asphalt. I stumble into a shallow ditch beside the road and come to a shaky halt. The speeding truck disappears around a bend.

  What the fuck?

  My heartbeat pounds in my head, my breath rasping. I rest my hands on my knees and gulp in air. Part of my brain struggles to attribute the close call to drunk driving or reckless teenagers, but another part prickles with terror.

  He knows where I am.

  I straighten and run across the road, not feeling safe again until I’m deep in the forest.

  I let Ghost into the kitchen, then lock the door behind him. I’ll keep him inside today as another layer of protection. I crack open a bottle of water. My heart still races with fear.

  Why would David come after me now? Doesn’t he know he scared me enough with his phone call? I’m half-tempted to try and reach him to tell him exactly that, but the restraining order is still in place. I’m certainly not about to violate it.

  I ensure all the doors and windows are locked, then feed Ghost and go upstairs to take a shower. For the first time, the creaking of the house is eerie rather than comforting.

  When I go downstairs again, Ghost is lying in front of the door, like he’s guarding it. I smile and scratch his ears. “Thanks, boy. You’re a good friend.”

  Maybe my only friend.

  An unwelcome image of Flynn emerges. My chest aches. The stack of Riley Flynn books and the box of drawings he’d given me yesterday are still on the coffee-table where I’d left them.

  Though the shock of discovery has worn off, I’m wary of everything the box contains. All images of me.

  I sit down and open a Riley Flynn book, Sea Storm. The elaborate, detailed pictures almost leap off the pages into living, breathing life.

  His secret is art.

  The illustrations and mazes of the books are already familiar to me. I’d purchased the first book in the series when it was published at least thirteen years ago, enthralled by the vibrant colors and expertly concealed clues of keys, stamps, puzzle pieces, and rings.

  I’ve bought the books as gifts for friends and their children, to give as graduation presents, for school libraries. I’m a fan of Westley and Tugg’s adventures. And I understand Flynn’s desire for anonymity much more now than I would have a year ago.

  I set the books aside and pull the lid off the box. What had he said—I’d inspired an idea that broke through three years of writer’s block?

  I take out a stack of drawings and study them. Yesterday, the naked pictures had eclipsed everything else, but there are only two of them. In the others, Flynn has reimagined me in numerous guises—a sorceress, a witch surrounded by radiance, a fairy nestled in a tulip like Thumbelina. A woman cloaked in red, standing before a full white moon. A warrior clad in armor, a powerful elf pulling an arrow into a bow.

  All of them are intricate and aesthetically beautiful, sketched with a deft, talented hand.

  I take a worn notebook from the box and open it. My heart jumps. Written in a distinctive black scrawl is the title:

  Fiamma

  A Fairy Tale

  Fiamma. That was the word he’d whispered right before I fell asleep yesterday. The Italian word for flame. “You lit something inside me. Like you were a flame.”

  The knot in my chest loosens a bit. I turn the page.

  Once upon a time there lived a cobbler’s son who loved a woodcutter’s daughter. The girl’s name was Anne, and she lived with her father in a village that nestled like an egg at the base of a mountain.

  Though the father was poor, he always said his life was filled with gold and silver, for that was how he saw his daughter. Her soul was the gold of the sun, and her beauty the silver of the moon. With his sun and moon, his gold and silver, the woodcutter wante
d for nothing.

  And the cobbler’s son? Jack’s life would have been darkness were it not for the light of Anne. He had loved her since childhood, but never had the courage to tell her. He showed her in small ways—repairing her father’s shoes, helping with chores, bringing them fresh bread. For a long time, he thought that might be enough, that one day she would look up and realize she loved him too.

  Then the cold came. Sheets of winter blew down from the mountains and through the forest that had protected the town for countless generations. In the span of a week, the cold had killed all the crops—apples, potatoes, wheat, corn. Anne’s father grew sick, his cough worsening like rocks rattling in a tin can.

  The townspeople murmured it would warm up soon, but another week passed, then another, until they were looking back at a month of cold. Then two months. Three.

  Now the cold will stop, the villagers whispered.

  It did not stop.

  It’s a curse, they whispered.

  And their eyes landed on Anne, sinking into her like the talons of a predatory bird. For it was not that long ago when a stranger had ridden into town, a man with a pale, narrow face and glittering green eyes. Those eyes chipped away at Anne like an ice pick, leaving her cold and trembling.

  He’d pointed a long finger at her. “You are the one I will have.”

  Though Anne didn’t consider herself brave, her mind filled with an image of her father and Jack. The two people she loved most in the world.

  “No.” The word was weak but firm.

  The stranger’s features sharpened like a blade. He turned, the horse’s hooves stirring up a whirlwind of dirt as he rode off in the direction from which he’d come.

  Then the cold began and did not stop.

  The food supply shrank. Animals starved. The villagers weakened, even as they continued to blame Anne for the curse.

  One night after Jack helped Anne with the chores, they sat by the dwindling fire, trying to keep warm and drinking cups of hot water flavored with tea. He set his cup down and knelt by her side. The firelight cast a warm glow over her, like an embrace. All light loved Anne.