Gremma’s parents called and informed them they would be visiting at some point. “To check up on me,” said Gremma. “But whatever. They’re cool, we’re cool. And besides, they’ll want to meet the girlfriend.”
Riley had flushed, but looked unmistakably pleased.
If Dee were being honest with herself, it was painful being with the two of them. Riley and Gremma were affectionate, comfortable around each other, and Dee’s chest ached every time she saw them kiss or hold hands.
The days dragged on, until one morning when Gremma was making scrambled eggs.
A loud knocking came at the front door.
“If it’s the neighbor boys asking to borrow a cup of vodka, tell them we’re out,” called Gremma.
There were other vacationers, of course. Notably, a house of college boys who seemed to show up every time Gremma wore a bikini to the beach.
Dee pulled the front door open and blinked.
It wasn’t a college boy.
It was a middle-aged man. Dressed in a suit.
Not a demon. There were lines around his eyes and gray in his hair. Definitely human.
Her heart began to pound. Lawyer, she thought. Undercover cop. Someone hired by her parents, someone to drag her home. But, no. She would not go, she wouldn’t—
“I’m looking for a Deirdre Moreno,” said the man.
Dee felt herself begin to tremble. “Who’s asking?”
The man smiled, not unkindly. “I’m a private investigator. I was hired a few months ago to deliver something to you—on this date, actually. I was supposed to find you and make sure you got this.”
He looked down and nudged a box with his foot. She hadn’t noticed it before, so focused was she on his suit and official demeanor. “Why?” she asked. “And by who?”
The man shrugged. “I’m just the messenger.” And then he was walking away, toward a car parked on the curb. Dee lingered in the doorway, eyeing the box with suspicion until Riley appeared behind her.
“Postman?” she asked.
“Private investigator,” replied Dee. “And a mysterious package.”
Riley tilted her head. Then she reached down and rattled the box. “Well, it’s not a bomb.”
“You can tell that from the noise?” Dee snorted.
Riley grinned up at her. “Actually, I could tell because it didn’t just explode.” Then she hefted the box into her arms and carried it into the dining room. “Yo, Gremma! Some man just delivered a mysterious package to Dee!”
“Cool.” Gremma came out of the kitchen, still wearing an apron that readKISS THE COOK.
“We should—” Dee began to say, but Gremma already had a very large kitchen knife in one hand. Once the box was open, Gremma dug into it and came out with a folder; Riley grunted and pulled out a boxed set of books; Dee found a slim manila envelope. She opened it and her fingers closed on the edge of a sheet of paper. It was expensive, thick, the kind used by artists, and her stomach fluttered. She knew this paper, had seen it in his hands many times.
She pulled a painting from the envelope.
It wasn’t large—perhaps the size of a normal, printed sheet of paper. But the style was different than she had ever seen. It was in watercolor, a medium Dee had never seen James use. It was lighter, more ephemeral, the brushstrokes were messier. It looked clumsier than James’s other paintings, but it was still beautiful.
The painting was of a girl. A girl with frizzy dark hair and brown skin. She was wearing a shirt with a private school pin, and she gazed out from the painting with steady, serious eyes.
Beneath the painting were two lines of cramped, familiar handwriting.
“Girl in Hospital Basement”
And beneath that,This is how I would have painted you if I hadn’t sold my heart.
