Slowly we withdrew from everyone. We didn’t have much family anyway—just my aunt, my dad’s sister. Aunt Jessie barely spoke to us after his death. I was shocked when she left me the house and the studio. Her gift was my chance to finally get out of Columbia, the city where I murdered my father, the city where my mom finally succumbed to her inner torment and ended her life.
It was nice of Mom to wait until I was in college, I guess. She held on just long enough, until she thought I didn’t need her anymore.
Sucky truth—a girl always needs her mom. No matter how old she gets.
Except for a handful of friends who’ve barely texted me since I moved, I’m alone. Maybe that’s why, even though Mrs. Dunwoody is kind of annoying, I don’t hate her. I guess I like to know that there’s someone who would notice if I didn’t come home one night or if I died in my house. Someone who could talk to the police if I disappeared.
Mrs. Dunwoody is drinking her morning tea on the balcony when I leave for the studio. I’m seriously dragging after the night I had—couldn’t fall asleep for the longest time after that nightmare woke me up. I kept seeing flashes of the living room of my childhood home, specifically the couch where chunks of my father were strewn in a slick of blood. The ugliness of a sight like that burrows deep into your psyche. No medication, no therapy, no amount of meditative exercise or weed or alcohol can destroy it. At best, you can hope to blur it sometimes. You can try to refill yourself with beautiful sights, with lovely things. But the image is always there, ready to flip to the forefront of your mind at the slightest trigger.
Dorian Gray is a trigger.
I try not to think about him as I sit on my stool in the studio, dragging my brush through a smear of paint, trying to finish the fucking beach scene I’m working on.
I can’t focus. Can’t find inspiration in this. Not like I did last night, when I created that man with the bronze muscles.
I’ve accidentally deleted or ruined work before, but those losses didn’t bother me this deeply. The picture of the red-haired man was exquisite, godlike. I can’t stop thinking about it and fretting because I know, with a sour, gut-wrenching certainty, I can never duplicate it.
Chewing the end of the paintbrush, I stare at the canvas. Maybe I need to get outside. Go somewhere and paint a landscape from life, not memory. Maybe then I can stop thinking about—
Fuck—I triggered myself—
A sofa upholstered in blood, with chunks of my dad strewn over it like pieces of a gory 3D puzzle.
The flashback is so painful I cringe, trying to physically shake it out of my head. Jumping off the stool, I hurry to the door and fling it open so I can feel the hot sun on my skin. The jingle of the little bell crashes against my sensitized brain. I pinch the bridge of my nose, squinting in the bright glare.
The sensory overload helps a little, sublimating the flashback.
I can’t be around Dorian Gray. I’m not sure why I’m having this reaction to him, but I do know he’ll only make this worse. But at the same time, I can’t dispel the idea that heknows something.
To me, knowledge has never been power. Knowledge is barriers and warnings and the awareness of greater danger.
If Dorian knows something about me, maybe I should find out exactly what it is. How dangerous he might be. How much risk he poses to the life I’m trying to construct from the shrapnel of my past.
Maybe I should go to this dinner at Circa 1886.
Swerving back into my shop, I pull out my phone. The card Dorian gave me is lying on my worktable where I left it yesterday.
With a sigh, I text two words to that number.
Fine. Tonight.
6
Baz
“Going on a date?” Mrs. Dunwoody leans over her balcony railing. The length of her balcony, like my porch, faces the siding of the neighbor’s house. The short end overlooks the pencil-thin driveway and the postage-stamp square of front lawn. Yet for some reason, despite the lack of any worthwhile view, she’s out on her balcony all the time, rain or shine, hot or cool.
I resist the urge to tug down the hem of my black ruched dress. It’s working its way up higher with every step, determined to skate right across my crotch instead of staying just above my knees where it’s supposed to be.
“Not a date, just dinner,” I reply.
“You be good now.” She waggles a finger at me.
“Yes, Mrs. Dunwoody.” I give her a little mock curtsy and take the opportunity to subtly pull down my hemline. A pointless effort, which I keep having to repeat as I stalk down Wentworth Street in my Dolls Kill heels—strappy things with enormously tall platform soles. A little indulgence after I got my inheritance. They add about four inches to my height, which should be useful whenI attempt to intimidate Dorian Gray.
I’m ten minutes late on purpose. I read once that’s a power move. Also I’m half hoping Dorian will have left before I arrive, but no such luck.
A low fence encircles the gardens of the Wentworth Carriage House, which houses the restaurant, and a short colonnade leads up to the entrance. Dorian Gray is lounging against one of the square green pillars.
