“And you are,” he said with such certainty, I could have believed it.
“That’s why you didn’t tell me where you kept Vincent,” I accused. “Is that why you called me here? To finish the job? To bury your secret?”
His lips curled into a grin, dimples forming as he shook his head.
“No, my love”—he tipped his head toward the audience—“we are finishing it together.”
I stared in silence for a moment, following his eyes slowly to the audience. I squinted, blinking to let my sight adjust to the darkness.
Somewhere in the void, movement.
My head snapped back to him. “Arkady, what have you done?”
He let me go, reaching into the back of his pants for a folder. He then emptied it onto the floor in front of me.
All of the photographs were of me, older, newer ... all of them. Even the one from the papers.
Arkady stepped to the edge of the stage, settling in a comfortable stance and shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’m missing a few patrons of yours, but that is because I used them as muses.”
“What do you mean?” I looked at him, his backlit silhouette somber in such a desolate scene.
He sighed. “I wanted to be respectful and let you do the honors.”
“I don’t understand.” My lip trembled as I stepped to his side.
“My muses were used to fill the sculptures,” he whispered, “and I still regret giving such divine opportunities to the likes of them.”
I stood stagnant.
Arkady looked to me, his steady hand engulfing mine. “The first sculpture of mine contained Kostya’s foster father,” he began.
I watched him, and now that he had my attention, he turned to me to collect both my hands in his. “The second one wasmyfoster parents, after I became a ward of the state. The third was Sister Margeretfrom when we were moved to Saint Lucia’s. She liked to burn us with cigarettes. The latest? My last foster parents. They rented us out to the factories. We were lucky if we just lost fingers, as some never came home.”
“So youhavehurt people before?” I whispered.
He nodded. “I didn’t lie to you entirely, just as you did with me. I never acted on an innocent, I only actedforinnocents. I am not angry. I wanted to show you that I understand.” He lifted my knuckles to his lips and kissed them, releasing a shaky breath as he closed his eyes. “I rid the world of my demons, allowing me to finally be free. I just want the same for you.”
I looked out into the still dark. Now that we were at the edge, I saw them.
All of them.
Forms to the front, slouched from apparent concussions and tied to the theater seats with rope. Several shifting heads and flighty glances. Some of them unconscious, some just coming to their senses.
Among them, a group of patrons at various stages of consciousness, most bound and gagged. Officers, including the commissioner. Next to Mr. Hunt was Vincent, armless and decaying. His body was almost all bones, dried clay keeping the bugs from speeding the process. One more seat over, my mother ... and finally, my father. The only ones not gagged were my parents, I suppose to plead their case, as they were the reason for everyone’s attendance at the heart of it all.
My hand tore from his to cover my mouth, gripping tight as I felt the tears finally escape.
“Some of your patrons overlapped with my muses. I suppose abusers rarely commit once,” he said, chest puffed out proudly. “Further proof we were fated to meet.”
“We can’t do this.” I shook my head. “It isn’t right.”
“Yes, you can.” He stepped behind me, his hands smoothing down my arms with his head tipped beside mine. “This is the time to let thetruth be free. To heal is to first be believed, to testify. Allow me to be your witness.”
I stared out into the crowd. My mother began to sob, the commissioner was barely conscious, and my father held my gaze with such eerie steadiness, I believed he knew this was his restitution for whatever deal he’d made at the crossroads with whatever devil he held dearest.
“They developed an appetite for killing ... and I, the taste for flesh against my will.”
“What did they do?” he prompted.
