“Oh.” I am hungry, but I look down at my baggy sweats and think of the effort it will take to make myself presentable for dinner. “I’m kind of tired after all the wedding stuff. I thought we were just going to slob out today.”
“We can,” he says as Kim reappears. She’s brushed her short blond curls into waves, and her lips have been painted scarlet to match her vintage tea dress. “You look lovely,” Dad says, cockinghis head. “But I think we’re going to stay in now. Is that okay?”
Kim forces a smile. “Of course. We need to finish packing anyway. Let me call the restaurant.” I sink into the sofa, feeling guilty, as she pulls out her phone and leaves the room.
“You guys should go,” I say, and Dad’s forehead crinkles in surprise. “I’ll be fine here. I can make beans on toast or something. Iamalmost eighteen.”
“You’ve been seventeen for less than a month, Fliss. Don’t be in a rush to grow up.”
I roll my eyes as Kim comes back into the room with her hand over the mouthpiece of her phone instead of just putting it on mute.
“They’re going to charge your card if we cancel now,” she stage-whispers to my dad. “Is that all right with you?” Dad shrugs, but I interrupt.
“Honestly, you two go—you can start your honeymoon early. I’ll be fine here.” Alone. With a cursed painting. I shake my head at the intrusive thought. Don’t be ridiculous, Fliss. “I’ll watch a movie and just chill out.”
“If you’re sure?” Dad asks.
I nod, so Kim leaves the room to confirm with the restaurant and comes back with a handful of glossy leaflets.
“Maybe we can order you a pizza or something?” Kim offers me the menus to a bunch of local takeaways. “If you want anything, send your dad the order and we can bring it back for you.”
“Thanks,” I say. God, she’s trying so hard that I’m starting to feel bad. “And you do look nice, Kim.”
Her eyes widen, and for a second I almost think she’s going to cry, but Dad jumps in.
“You know the drill,” he says. “Don’t open the door for anyone, and call if you need us. We’re only at San Franco on Main Street, so we can be home in less than ten minutes.”
“Got it.”
Dad ushers Kim out, and I wave at them from the sofa, waiting until I hear the front door close before I scour the menus. Apparently wedding cake is not a good lunch, because I’m ravenous, but I wasn’t lying when I said I’m tired. I look at the menus but can’t even decide on the food I want because the selection is overwhelming, so I quickly send Dad a message asking him to just bring me home some pasta and garlic bread instead. Then I pull the string that closes the wooden shutters and snuggle down into the sofa as my eyelids grow heavy in the now-dark room.
The cushion fabric smells like Kim’s lemony perfume, but I find that I don’t mind it as much as I thought I would. It does make me think of my mom, though, so I send her a text, promising to try to speak to them all when they wake up—I think it’s still the middle of the night in Sydney. Then I close my eyes and listen to the weirdly soothing sound of canned laughter on the TV.
My eyes fly open at a loud bang from outside the living room, and panic clutches my chest, though my limbs are still leaden, unwilling to move. It takes me a second to get my bearings as my body catches up with my brain. The living room is much darker now, because there’s no TV on, even though I was watching itwhen I fell asleep. Has there been some kind of power cut? I check my phone and see it’s only six p.m. I’ve been asleep for almost two hours.
“Hello?” I call out, my mouth dry. I push the tangle of the blanket off, feeling my warm cheeks with one hand. God, it’s stifling in here. I pull the cord on the shutters so they creak open, sending dusty slices of light across the wooden floor. “Dad? Kim?”
No one answers. I check my phone, but the only text is a thumbs-up from Dad about my food. I get up to go in search of a cold drink before I remember the bang that woke me.
“Hello?” I try again, but my voice is kitten weak this time. It’s like my brain knows that if the noise was caused by an uninvited guest, then I shouldn’t be giving my location away.
I tiptoe to the door as my heart pounds against my rib cage and flick the light switch to check if it works. The velvety wallpaper whispers against my skin, but nothing else happens. I shiver. Definitely a power cut, then.
I slide open one of the living room doors and look out into the entryway, just as the TV starts up behind me. The sound is so deafening that I let out a little yelp. I sag against the doorframe as the lights blaze on in unison and I release a small, strangled sigh of relief.
Until I see what’s on the hallway floor.
“No,” I moan, kneeling in front of the painting.
The bang I heard was the portrait hitting the ground. It must have been too heavy, because flakes of plaster and a rogue nail are scattered across the hardwood floor. I pick it up, praying that there’s no damage, and relax when it appears intact. I look at thebrushstrokes in detail, their thick, clumpy texture turning my stomach. It’s even creepier up close, and I can almost believe it threw itself off the wall to get my attention. Well, curse or no curse, Dad will be upset if I don’t look after it. Doesn’t mean I have to lookatit, though.
“Let’s put you back here,” I say aloud, turning the painting away from me and propping it on the console table so I can only see the back of it. There’s a layer of thick card stapled to the wooden frame that supports the canvas, and even to my untrained eye, it’s far newer than the rest of the portrait. “There.” I straighten up, brushing off my hands on my sweatpants when something at the bottom corner snags my eye. “Oh, no.”
There’s a long, dark crevice along the bottom of the backing card where the right corner has come free. I poke at it, hoping it will magically reseal itself, but instead I hear the crinkle of more paper. Weird. I activate the flashlight on my phone and lift the edge of the card carefully, peering into the slim space between it and the canvas.
A newspaper page pokes out.
Before I stop to think about whether it’s a good idea, I hook my nails round the edge and pull at the card until I hear a pop, this one loosening the staple on the bottom left-hand side. Pain slices across my palm as my earlier paper cut catches on the card, and I snatch my hand away, hoping I didn’t get blood on the canvas, as the newsprint starts to slide free. I tug at the card with my other hand, widening the space to tempt it out, when a rush of paperwork falls out and hits the floor. I check inside to see if there’s anything else, but I can only see the rear of the canvas overthe stretcher bars. I leave the painting propped on the table and drop to the floor, picking up the pages one by one.
