“He’s dead,” Chris says flatly.
“But he’s still goddamn here, isn’t he?” Sabin sounds shaky, anxious, desperate. “There’s no outrunning him, is there? There’s just no fucking outrunning him.”
My stomach drops when I scan the painting again and then the ones nearby. Sabin’s disbelief and fear become my own.
Their father painted these.
Chris has his hand on the painting still when a woman approaches us.
“Excuse me, but you can’t touch the artwork,” she says tersely.
We all ignore her, and I move closer to the boys. “Your father’s?”
Chris drops his hand and numbly backs up. “Yes,” he confirms.
Sabin is ashen, stepping in closer to the painting with the black smudges. He studies it, his expression one of curiosity that turns darker the longer he looks. That turns fearful.
“This is your father’s work?” the woman asks. “I’m the gallery owner, and we’re tremendous fans of his. What a thrill to meet you.” She extends a hand that no one accepts, yet she continues to gush, “He donated a significant number of pieces to us, and we have a showing dedicated to his work coming up. I had no idea he had children, or we would have invited you to attend. Do you live in the area? It’s this coming Saturday, and you must be there. What an incredibly talented artist he was, and I was terribly sorry to hear of his passing.”
Christopher and Sabin both look as afraid as I’ve ever seen them, both unmoving and in shock.
“Each painting alone is worth a substantial amount, and the number of pieces that he arranged to leave to us was so generous.” She steps in closer to them, but both are frozen. “Do you know how many he left to be sold for charities as well? Such a humanitarian, your father—”
Quickly, I insert myself between her and the boys. “Back up,” I direct her.
She leans to the side, insistent that she be heard. “What? I’m just explaining how much they’re worth—”
“They’re not worth a goddamn thing!” I am nearly spitting out my words. “Destroy them. Destroy every single one.”
The gallery owner’s shocked expression means nothing to me. I turn and put my hands on Sabin and Chris, pushing them away, trying to lead them from this cruel reminder of their past. Both stumble back, both lost in whatever memories these paintings have triggered.
The woman’s hand lands on my shoulder. “I don’t understand. If you’ll give me your numbers, we’d love to have—”
I whip around, shoving her hand away, and step in so that my face is just inches from her. I speak slowly and clearly because I will only say this once, “Shut the fuck up. Do you hear me?” There is so much venom and threat in my voice that she finally clamps her mouth. “You have no idea what you’re doing, so just shut the fuck up. We are leaving. Do not talk to them. Do not ever contact them. They are no longer that man’s sons. They do not exist to you. Clear?”
She nods.
Chris and Sabin are in the same spot where I left them, and I ignore the few onlookers who witnessed the scene.
“Come on. It’s okay. Come on.” It takes more force than I expected to get them to budge from their spots, but finally, I wordlessly move them away from the tent and get them down to the next cross street.
“Where are Estelle and Eric?” Chris asks, suddenly panicked.
“They’re still back up where we left them.”
“I don’t want them to see. They can’t see.”
“Okay. I’ll make sure Zach gets them past that gallery without stopping.” I send a short text to Zach, explaining what’s going on.
“Thank you.” Christopher’s usual steadiness has been shaken hard, but he’s starting to come back to solid ground. He turns to his brother. “Sabin? It’s okay now.”
Sabin’s eyes are unfocused. “Chris?”
“It’s okay, Sabin,” he repeats. “You’re all right.”
“But…you’re hurt?”
Chris sounds more confident now. “No, I’m not. Look at me. Sabin, you have to look at me.”
