Ghost Hold

by Ripley Patton

  Then I saw one more paper, trapped under the rest, and I pulled it out. In the middle, it had lots of grown-up writing in tiny print like the others, and at the bottom it had my daddy’s name on a line, his signature in beautiful swirls and loops the way he wrote it at the bottom of his paintings. But, at the top of the paper was a picture of two hands, clasped together, with a circle around them. And I took my black crayon and I traced the pattern of that symbol. I traced it over and over again with my black crayon until Daddy opened the door to the study and found me doing it.

  “Hey, Peanut.” He caught me up in his arms, squeezing me to his chest. “I love you so much. I’m so happy you’re back.”

  “Where’s the other Olivia?” I asked, because she hadn’t been hanging in the foyer when Mommy and I had come into the house.

  “Well.” His voice sounded funny. “She went away on a little trip, just like you did, but she’s going to come back soon. I promise.”

  “She didn’t go to Grandma’s, did she?” I frowned. “Because she won’t like it there.”

  “No.” He smiled. “She didn’t go to Grandma’s.”

  And a month later, The Other Olivia was hanging in our entryway again, looking as fresh and new as if she’d just been painted.

  Because she had been.

  “Anne,” someone said, and I realized that Passion was touching my arm, a look of concern on her face. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” I said, looking past her to my father’s painting on Samantha’s father’s wall. “I, uh—it’s a powerful piece.” I looked at Samantha. “Who’s the artist?”

  “A relatively unknown American painter named Stephen Black,” she answered, happy to regale us with her knowledge of my father. “This is one of his first works, and it’s the only one of its kind. There hasn’t been a duplicate or print of it made, ever. And that makes it very valuable.”

  “It’s not the only one,” I said.

  “What?” Samantha asked, staring at me, and Passion squeezed my arm in alarm.

  “You’re telling me that this painting has never been photographed, or reproduced on the Internet, or printed out by some bimbo at Kinkos? How can you know that?”

  “It was a part of the purchase contract,” Samantha said. “Total exclusivity. And it isn’t on the Internet anywhere. You can look it up.”

  I didn’t need to. I knew it wasn’t. But it was in my room back at the McMansion. My dad had broken his contract, but then maybe it had become null and void after I’d scribbled the crap out of it.

  “That still wouldn’t make a painting by an obscure painter worth that much money,” I argued. “You’re exaggerating its worth.”

  “You think I’m lying?” she laughed. “Why would I lie about that? But you’re right: its value comes only partly from its uniqueness. The rest comes from its place in this collection and the fact that the artist died a few years ago at the height of his career. All of that makes this painting extremely rare and valuable.”

  “Well, isn’t that great for you?” I said, unable to keep the snark out of my voice. My dad had died, and that had made Samantha and her dad richer and happier. Hurray for them.

  “We’re not happy he died.” She frowned at me. “He was a great painter, and he might have produced many more great works in his lifetime.”

  Passion had let go of my arm, but she was glancing back and forth between Samantha and I as if she were watching a car wreck, helpless to look away.

  I glanced at The Other Other Olivia, the original, a piece my dad had created just for me so I wouldn’t be a lonely only child. It belonged to me. This painting was mine. Never mind that is was locked away in this room and guarded like Fort Knox. Here she was, my ghostly counterpart, sealed behind locked doors, watched by cameras, and shrouded in the perfect climate. She was in pristine condition, framed in gleaming, ornate, burnished wood, with a lovely gold title plate mounted on the wall underneath her.

  My eyes froze, locked onto the title engraved on that plate.

  Passion followed my gaze, her eyes lighting on it too.

  It did not say The Other Olivia.

  Someone had given this painting a completely different name than my father had given it.

  Passion glanced at me, a question in her eyes. She had never seen David’s list. Marcus and I had never been specific with her about the mysterious last name on it, the girl who, as far as we could tell, simply didn’t exist.

  Kaylee Pasnova.

  But the title plate we were both staring at under my father’s painting read Kaylee Pas Nova.

  “Who’s Kaylee Pas Nova?” I asked Samantha, trying to sound casual.

  “She is our sister, our mother, our future,” Samantha said reverently. “She’s the epitome of the new spiritual era and the symbol of our imminent evolution.”

  “So, she’s an icon,” I said, “like The Virgin Mary. Not a real person.”

  “Mary was a real person,” Passion objected.

  “Kaylee is real,” Samantha said with conviction. “Some people say she was the first person born with PSS. Some people say she will be the last person born with flesh. Some people say she is both.”

  And some people are cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Great. My agnostic father had painted a picture, and somehow it had become the pivotal icon for The Hold. Back in Greenfield he was probably rolling over in his unmarked grave.

  “The first person born with PSS was Thea Frandsen of Norway,” I pointed out.

  “So we’ve been told,” Samantha said. “Do you believe everything you’re told?”

  “No,” I said. Especially not by crazy cult princesses. “What about the Pas Nova part? Is that her last name, or a place, or what? It sounds Latin.”

  “That’s because it is.” Samantha eyed me approvingly. “Pas means ‘step’ in Latin and nova means ‘new’ or ‘next.’ ”

  “So, she’s Kaylee Step Next?” I asked, mockingly.

  “I didn’t expect you to understand,” Samantha said, turning back to Passion, her voice earnest, “but Passion might. I believe this painting represents the next step in human evolution on earth, the pas nova, when everyone will be born as pure spiritual beings.”

  I stood there, staring at her, trying not to laugh in her face. How could people say stuff like that and not realize it was utterly ridiculous? My father had painted this picture with no religious or spiritual intentions whatsoever. He’d painted it for me, so I wouldn’t feel alone. And these people had taken it, and changed the name, and twisted its very purpose to support some crazy theory they’d made up in their own heads. If I hadn’t believed in Samantha’s religious ranting before, I certainly didn’t now.

  “I think that sounds beautiful,” Passion said, countering the silence of my disbelief. “What a wonderful thing to believe.”

  Was she really buying this? Or was she just courting Samantha like we were supposed to? Personally, I was getting kind of tired of playing nice. And with all the weird shit cropping up like Passion’s PSS blood, my dad’s painting, and the name Kaylee Pasnova, all I really wanted to do was talk to Marcus as soon as I could.

  I looked down at my wrist and said, “I think it’s time for us to go. My brother’s going to wonder where we are.” I didn’t have a watch on. I had no idea what time it was.

  “Doesn’t he think you’re at school?” Samantha asked, confused, but I was already moving out of the alcove and pulling Passion with me.

  “I get claustrophobic,” I said, racing toward the door.

  “Hey, take it easy,” Samantha called, coming after us.

  “Olivia, calm down,” Passion whispered. “You’re going to give us away.”

  I glanced at her, looking away from our path to freedom for a moment, and felt my left elbow bang against something. It was a tall white pedestal holding a bronze sculpture of a young man, his right leg cast in blue translucent glass from the knee down. And the sculpture was wobbling, teetering on its perch.

  “Oh my God! Don’t let
it fall,” Samantha yelled, still too far behind us to do anything.

  I reached out and grabbed the pedestal to steady it, but that was the wrong thing to do.

  The sculpture pitched forward, careening off the edge like it was committing suicide.

  My hands were too slow and too preoccupied with the pedestal, even though my brain was screaming at them, Catch it! For fuck’s sake, catch it!

  But they didn’t listen.

  And it fell.

  And I missed it.

  But Passion didn’t.

  She reached out and caught the bronze boy in mid-air, clutching him in her hands.

  “I told you to be careful,” Samantha hissed at me, charging up and grabbing the sculpture out of Passion’s hands. “This is an Anita Rencraft, and it’s the only sculpture she ever produced.”

  “Good catch,” I said to Passion. “And, hey, at least we didn’t set off the alarm,” I told Samantha as she set the boy reverently back on his pedestal.

  A split-second later, red lights began to flash from the ceiling, accompanied by a loud, shrill sound.

  “Shit. Come on, we have to get out of here,” I said, grabbing Passion’s arm and heading for the door.

  But there were already two armed guards coming through it, their guns drawn, the dogs barking up a storm out in the hallway.

  “Put your hands up,” the guy in the front said.

  And we did.

  “Oh, Jackson, be nice,” Samantha said, stepping around us. “They’re my friends.”

  18

  MEETING MR. JAMES

  “Why doesn’t someone explain to me why the three of you were in my private collection room in the middle of the school day?” Mr. James said, standing over us and looking from Passion to me to Samantha. The three of us were sitting on a leather couch in his very large, nicely appointed office, which is where the security team had escorted us right after they’d frisked Passion and I and taken our phones.

  “Please don’t be angry at Samantha,” Passion said. “We begged her to show us. Anne is a real art buff and I—I was curious about the PSS.”

  “Daddy,” Samantha said, “this is Passion Clawson, and this is her cousin Anne. It was their first day at Edgemont today, but I noticed Passion right away. She has PSS of the blood.” A significant look passed between the two of them.

  “Cousins?” Mr. James asked, his eyes flicking to me and landing on my gloves, curious and calculating.

  “I have a condition,” I explained. “Severe eczema. The gloves are medicated and they protect me from exposure to infection.”

  Mr. James looked from my hands to Samantha, and she gave a slight shake of her head.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Mr. James said to me. “I have a very good doctor. One of the best. I’d be happy to have him look at your hands.”

  “Oh, Anne’s been to lots of doctors,” Passion interjected, probably because she’d felt me tense up at the mere mention of the word. “But thank you for the offer. It’s very kind.”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, forcing a smile.

  “You’re welcome.” He nodded. “And the offer stands if you ever want to take me up on it.”

  “Anne has an older brother,” Samantha told him, another look passing between them. “Their parents are away overseas for several weeks, and he’s been in charge of the family move to Indy.”

  “Well, that sounds challenging,” Mr. James said, sitting down in a chair and appraising us. “You three must be very independent and responsible young people for them to trust you with a task like that.”

  “We are,” I said, looking at him. You have no idea, Mr. James.

  “Responsible young people who skip school and break into other people’s valuable art collections?” he asked, eyeing me pointedly.

  “Daddy,” Samantha scolded him. “I was the one who did that. Don’t blame them.”

  “And what did you think of my collection, Anne?” Mr. James asked, placing his elbows on his thighs and pressing his hands together in a steeple.

  “It’s an extremely diverse and impressive collection,” I said, which wasn’t a lie. “But I’m not sure it proves what you think it does.”

  “Ah, a skeptic,” he said, leaning back in his chair and smiling. “I was a skeptic myself once. I have a very soft spot in my heart for them. What about you Passion?” he asked, turning to her. “What did you see?”

  “I’m not sure,” Passion said. “I’d want to know more before I decide. But I know I saw beauty and power and I felt somehow—validated.”

  “Validated, yes. Very good word,” Mr. James said, nodding at her. “Then I’m glad you saw it, both of you. And I’m sorry about your phones. You’ll get them back, I promise. Just your typical security protocol for this sort of thing. Nothing to worry about.”

  He was afraid we’d taken pictures of his precious collection. Of Kaylee Pas Nova, to be precise. And his security team had probably already scanned and deleted whatever had been on our phones. Good thing Nose had wiped mine and Passion’s was brand new, bought by Marcus as a part of her rich girl disguise.

  “Now, is there a way I could contact your parents?” Mr. James asked Passion. “Because I’d very much like to talk to them. Not to get you in trouble or anything, but I have a special interest in young people with PSS, for obvious reasons,” he said, looking adoringly at Samantha, “and I’d love to talk with them about that in particular.”

  “Oh—I—” Passion stammered, looking from me to Samantha.

  “Passion’s parents are going through a bad divorce,” Samantha explained to her father. “That’s why she’s staying with Anne and her family. They’re her guardians at the moment.”

  “I see. Then your parents, Anne,” he said turning to me. “What’s the best way to contact them?”

  “They’re on a private cruise in the Mediterranean,” I said. “Very remote. But they do check in now and then. Next time they do, I could give them your number.”

  “Very good,” Mr. James said, retrieving a card off his desk. “This is my direct line. I always answer it,” he said, handing it to me. “Tell them to call me anytime. Day or night.” I wasn’t surprised to see The Hold icon in the upper right hand corner of the card. “And, in the meantime, I’d like to extend the James hospitality to your entire household.” He handed a card to Passion too. “If you need anything, give me a call. In fact, I’d like to have you all over for dinner tomorrow night.”

  “No, really, we couldn’t,” I said. “We’ve bothered you enough already.”

  “Nonsense,” Mr. James said, “I’m sure with your parents gone you’ve been eating nothing but pizza and junk food, and Samantha and I could certainly use the company with her mother away on business. I’ll send a car for the three of you tomorrow at six.”

  “The three of us?” I asked, confused.

  “Your brother is invited too, of course,” Mr. James said.

  “Thank you, that’s so nice of you,” Passion said, smiling from Mr. James to Samantha, who was smiling broadly back. “And we were hoping Samantha could come over to our place this afternoon.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Mr. James said, and I saw Samantha’s face fall. “You see, Samantha is helping me organize a huge art gala event coming up this Friday evening, and we have lots of planning to do.”

  I honestly expected Samantha to argue. After the way I’d seen her handle that secretary at school, and everyone else, I was pretty sure that Samantha James was used to getting her way in just about everything. But she didn’t say a thing, and that’s when I knew that if Samantha’s will was a thing to be reckoned with, then Mr. James’s must be a force of nature. I had to keep reminding myself that this smooth, polite, charming man was the leader of a cult.

  “Oh, okay,” Passion said, sounding genuinely disappointed.

  “We’ll see each other at school tomorrow though, and when you come for dinner,” Samantha promised, smiling at her.

  “Now, I must get back to wo
rk,” Mr. James said, standing up, “and the three of you will be taking a car straight back to class.”

  “But it’s already two o’clock,” Samantha protested. “By the time we get back to school, we’d have to turn right back around and head home.”

  “Good point,” he said, glancing at his watch. “How about if I call a car around to take Anne and Passion home? There’s something new in the works for the gala I want your opinion on, Sam, but I have a couple of phone calls to make first. Girls, nice to meet you,” he said, bowing a little at the waist, like a Chinese gentleman, and ushering all three of us to the door. “I look forward to some rousing conversations over dinner tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” Passion said. “Nice to meet you too.”

  We exited into the hallway where two large security thugs were waiting for us.

  One of them handed Passion and I our phones, and the other one led us downstairs, leaving us in the foyer until the car came around to take us home.

  Watching Passion and Samantha say goodbye was almost painful. I looked away, trying to ignore their cute flirty awkwardness.

  When Passion and I climbed into the car and the driver closed the door, I turned to her and whispered, “You told me all that other stuff last night, but you couldn’t tell me you had PSS blood?”

  “A girl has to have some secrets,” she said, smiling and turning to look out the window.

  19

  KAYLEE PAS NOVA

  When the car pulled up to the McMansion, I could practically feel the eyes on us from inside the house. The guys probably all had their guns up and ready as we stepped out of the vehicle and it drove away.

  Passion and I walked up the front path, and Marcus opened the door before we even arrived at it.

  “Whose car was that?” he asked, gesturing us inside. “School isn’t even out yet.”

  “That was Samantha James’s car,” I said, walking into the living room and slumping down onto a couch.

  Passion sank down next to me and leaned her head on my shoulder.

  “What happened?” Marcus asked, looking worried. “Why didn’t you bring her with you?”