by Lana Sky
I picture the mysterious figure from last night and shrug. “I know what it’s like to have people pry into my life. Sometimes, the intrigue is better than the reality.”
“Fair enough,” the woman says, but I can tell she’s still bemused as I escort her out.
Alone, I finish another cup of coffee and find myself gazing at the painting, desperate to decipher the secrets lurking beneath every layer of paint.
Sampson. I’ve never heard of him—and in this city, anonymity only extends to those who don’t matter at all or those who matter too much. Privacy is a commodity even I can’t afford.
I’m tempted to look him up. Try my hand at Google. A part of me doesn’t want to, however. Maybe that’s the fun of it all. The allure. My first ever birthday present to myself in over twenty years and I don’t even know who made it for me. Or why. Or what possessed him to blend death with flowers. Beauty with horror.
Or why he seems to despise me.
I’ll never find out.
And unlike my dealings with Simon, I don’t have to.
A town car arrives for me at six on the dot. After cajoling the driver into taking the long route to the suburbs, I spend a majority of the ride silently rehearsing my lines in a compact mirror.
Hello, Daddy. Pause and smile. I’ve been fine. Blink. You look wonderful, and so does Diane. Flash an even bigger smile, and then the finale, uttered with a mischievous tilt of my head. Will there be cake?
It’s the same script I’ve recited at every other birthday dinner, and he never demands more—only that I show up and let him have this one day. A handful of hours when we both can pretend that my past doesn’t matter.
I owe him that much.
Determined to put on the best performance, I pour all my energy into arranging my flawless outfit and perfecting that easy, confident smile. I’m ready by the time the driver turns onto the long driveway leading to the secluded, astronomical-acre plot Daddy bought the moment he retired.
Squaring my shoulders, I exit the car and put my rehearsed steps into motion. Smile first. Confident walk. The moment I mount the first stone step leading to the door, it opens from the inside as if on cue.
And my stomach drops right to my stiletto heels.
Daddy is wearing that tired gray suit from his glory days and a pinched expression. No warm smile. No arms outstretched for our customary hug. Instead, he ushers me inside with a wave of his hand. “Welcome home, sweet pea.”
I follow him uneasily. The house doesn’t feel the same despite the cheery coat of yellow paint brightening the entryway. Something’s wrong. A subtle tinge in the air renders everything out of place. Odd. Off. The feeling grows as we enter the private study—not the dining room down the hall, where I know everyone else is waiting, poised to shout “Surprise!” on sight.
Glimpsed from the side, my father’s expression is as stern as it used to be when he was on the bench and nearly jumped out of his skin every time someone said “boo” to me.
“Juliana…” He sighs, and a telling sent wafts from his breath. Tobacco.
I raise an eyebrow. “Have you been smoking?”
“That doesn’t matter.” Concern weighs his weathered features down, exaggerating the wrinkles around his eyes and his mouth. He looks so old today.
Maybe I look older. I can’t tell in the reflection staring back at me from the glass case displaying various legal paraphernalia. My face is transposed over one of his many awards. How fitting. I’m part woman. Part trophy.
“Juliana?”
“I’m fine—”
“You look tired.” He smooths a wayward lock of hair away from my face. “Is it the storms?”
Storms. His subtle way of skirting around the dangerous topic we never mention directly: the past.
“We’re in the middle of a particularly violent system according to the newscasters, sweet pea,” he adds. “Maybe you should sleep here until it passes? Diane’s kept the white noise machine you used to use, and there’s spare Zofran in the medicine cabinet—”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “They don’t even bother me anymore.”
“That’s good…” His hand settles over my shoulder, imparting the comfort and vulnerability only he can.
Like always, I’m a child again around him. Heyworth Thorne, my hero. He saved me when I was only eight years old, from more than just a psychopath. He’s tried his best to dust off my cracks and piece my broken mind together.
I smile hard to let him know that he has—force of habit.
But, this time, he doesn’t smile back.
“There’s something else, darling,” he begins cautiously. “I know you won’t agree, so I’ll just come right out and say it. I want to put a guard on you. Full time. It’s just for a little while and I’ll ensure they stay out of sight.”
“What?” My pretty little mask slips. Over twenty years of secrets. Have I blown the game already? “Why?”
I push past him and brace my hands on the desk to keep standing. Ice solidifies in my veins, choking the air from my lungs. I force in a breath and let it out. In. Out.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” He closes the door to his office and comes to my side to dab at my dry eyes with a handkerchief. Another force of habit.
If we can’t perform our charming father-daughter routine, we fall into the only other roles we know how to play. Protector and victim.
“It’s just… There’s a threat,” he says. “Against me, but there’s no reason to believe that this person won’t attempt to target you.”
“Target me?” I don’t say the obvious: as if they haven’t already. But the phrasing means he isn’t referring to Simon. Someone new perhaps. “Who?” I ask, steeling myself for the answer.
These days, most of the city is out for Thorne blood. My gaze lands over the newspaper on his desk, and sure enough, emblazoned on the front page is a quote from a legal analyst on the Borgetta ruling: “Any man tasked with upholding the law should do his due diligence to ensure that no bias affects his ruling. In this case, the bias is clear: Mathias Villa was doomed for nothing more than the color of his skin.”
I stop reading, surprised to discover that it isn’t the only topic to make the headlines. A glossy photo of the Lariat ballroom gleams beneath a row of text reading Reclusive Artist Dazzles at First Public Showing.
“Don’t read that trash.” Daddy snatches up the paper and tosses it into the wastebasket. Before I can question it, he forces a grin. “And let’s not talk about the nitty details now. It’s your special night. Did you enjoy yesterday?”
I nod. Strange. The motion doesn’t feel like lying. “I did. I even bought myself a present.”
“A present?” He cocks his head. “That does sound like a good day. What did you buy?”
“A painting.” In some ways, I’m still riveted by the piece. Pale flesh intertwined with ruby red. Stark violence and beautiful irony.
Heyworth Thorne most likely wouldn’t approve.
“A painting,” he mutters while fiddling with his tie. He did the same thing the night his first wife died and he tried to explain to a fifteen-year-old me how accidental overdoses happened. “It’s almost funny that you’d mention something like that…” He sighs again, more heavily this time.
I gently touch his shoulder. “Daddy?”
He’s never looked this tired. This old. “Have you heard of someone named Damien Villa?”
“I don’t think so.” Though the name does ring a bell, I’m not sure why. No face comes to mind anyway.
“You should have,” Daddy snaps, a hard note in his voice. “I told you: You need to be more attentive. Especially where that godforsaken place is concerned.” He jerks his head in the general direction of the city and scoffs. “Damien Villa is the head of one of the cruelest crime syndicates on this side of the country. La Muerte.”
All I can do is feign interest while he watches me expectantly. “That sounds intimidating.”
“Try murderous,” he r
eplies. “They work as the American arm for a Colombian cartel, though he’s supposedly reformed. Some say his brother runs it still. He’s a monster and a goddamn madman, but because he has enough money to throw around, he’s making trouble for me where it matters.”
“Are you okay?” It isn’t like him to curse. Or glare so harshly that the vein in his forehead lurches against his skin. “Is he threatening you?”
“Ha! At least then I could do something about it,” he snaps. “The bastard is too clever to do that, at least not outright. But…he’s not above planting rumors. Some of them may even pertain to you, and if you hear anything—anything at all—you must promise to come to me first—”
“Why?” I take a step toward him, but he hunches his shoulders away from me. “Is this about…”
His sigh is unwilling confirmation. On principle, we’ve rarely broached the topic of the Borgetta murder case, but in the tumult of information spilling through the airwaves, I’ve heard enough to last a lifetime.
The details are foggy, but I remember the gist: a woman, Emily Borgetta, daughter of a prominent politician, was brutally raped and murdered by a man with ties to organized crime. Daddy threw the book at him: life served in the cruelest prison in the state. Ten years later, a lack of evidence allowed some appeals court to not only overturn his conviction, but declare him innocent—but a few weeks before the final decision went public, the man killed himself in prison. Now, everyone in the world is a legal analyst, the most ignorant of them claiming racial bias in the original judgment. Most spectators settle for calling my father incompetent. Or evil. Whichever looks better in a headline.
After he spent nearly a lifetime on the bench, this case has become a black stain on an otherwise glowing record—and it’s killing him.
“I’m asking again: Did he threaten you?” Now doesn’t feel like the right time to mention my own log of menacing voicemails. “We could always go public. Do a news conference.”
“No.” Daddy clenches his fists so hard that his knuckles whiten. “Oh, he wouldn’t give me the satisfaction. That sick bastard—” He cuts himself off and meets my gaze directly. “He’s dangerous, Juliana. Especially now. And as for a news conference… I haven’t told you before, but I’ve decided to run again, despite these disgusting allegations. I’m announcing it officially at a press conference soon, and I want you to be there. I need you to be there.”
I digest the news in silence and wind up observing my hands. They shake. Flattening them against the desk’s surface can’t disguise it.
After five long years, it’s fitting that Heyworth Thorne would choose now, of all times, to jump back into the fray and defend his name. The dread knotting in my stomach is more selfish than anything. Whenever he campaigns, his surveillance of me becomes obsessive. Not that increased patrols have ever stopped Simon before.
But no. It’s more than that. An uneasy Daddy means more questions. More covert calls to my therapist to ensure I’m complying with my sessions. The return of his surprise visits to my apartment to discreetly check that I don’t have wine stockpiled in the fridge.
He loves me.
He loves his reputation more.
“Don’t worry, Daddy,” I say, sweetly uttering my expected line. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’m still getting you a bodyguard.” His hardened expression warns I won’t be able to change his mind with a bat of my eyelashes. “You won’t even know he’s there. So don’t hold too big of a grudge, eh?” He props my chin against the pad of his thumb and contorts his lips into what passes for a smile. “Now what do you say we get this evening started right? Diane made your cake.”
I nod, and we exit his office. It’s only on our way through the foyer that I remember what sparked the morbid turn in our conversation in the first place.
“Damien Villa,” I start as Daddy waves off someone peeking around the corner who quickly scurries out of sight. “What does he have to do with painting?”
“He owns a gallery,” Daddy says, slowing his steps. We’re close enough to the dining room to hear the muffled commotion coming from within. Eight people I suspect. The same mixture of family, friends, and neighbors who attend every year. “The police suspect it’s how he launders a majority of his money. He’s used the prestige and other so-called legitimate business ventures to amass enough political sway to pressure my old donors.”
“Why?” I ask. “What does he have against you?”
“Don’t worry about him.” Daddy takes my hand and gives it an impatient tug. “I’ll tell you another day, sweet pea. For now, how about we make this night something to remember?”
I recognize the tremor in his voice. He’s pleading, and the scared, desperate little girl I used to be rears her ugly head.
Keeping him happy means smiling on cue.
Maintaining the façade.
Being perfect, darling, wonderful Juliana.
“Sure, Daddy.” I beam and step around him, my script at the ready. “You look wonderful, by the way. And you said Diane made cake? Oh, how considerate.”
At last, he returns my grin with one of his own, and arm in arm, we enter the dining room to shouts of “Surprise!” The biggest one of all being how my smile doesn’t slip once, even as my mental clock continuously tracks the passage of time.
Tick. Tock.
I’d kill someone with my bare hands for a glass of wine. Just one. From the good, cheap bottle tucked behind my headboard, preferably. Daddy wouldn’t approve, but hell, I’ve earned his love tonight.
Like the best daughter, I simpered and charmed and had the most “wonderful” not-birthday birthday dinner in existence.
But I’m not ready to receive my next gift.
Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t have the sense to request that the driver take the usual detour, so we’ve arrived at the Lariat way too soon.
Too early.
Simon prefers for me to stumble across his presents rather than lie in wait. A glance at my watch draws a sigh from my lips. Way too early. There’s at least an hour to kill.
As I step out onto the curb, I consider the bar. It beckons me from beyond a glittering row of windows. Oh, the promise of salty, stale, expensive wine.
On my way into the lobby I notice that the poster advertising the art of Sampson is still there. A steady line of people streams in and out at the discretion of the blond woman with her trademark clipboard.
She spots me from across the lobby and smiles. “Couldn’t stay away?”
Maybe not. The distraction promised by wine isn’t as appealing as the cruel honesty of death and floral arrangements, apparently. I’m slipping into the crowd of eager voyeurs before I know it. An unseen figure presses another brochure into my hands, but nothing holds my attention for long—apart from the maze of canvases.
Sampson likes his subjects nude. And it seems he never paints the same woman twice. They all stare from various angles, wide-eyed and contorted in some grotesque pose. Despite the myriad of differences, one feature always appears in every single portrait: pink lips, slightly parted. A knowing, petulant pout.
As if every muse relished her master’s attention, right down to the final stroke.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
I recognize the crisp voice of the blond woman. I turn to face her, realizing that, once again, I’m left staring long after the thick of the crowd has dissipated.
“I don’t do this often,” she says before I can apologize, “and I must say that Sampson isn’t very fond of humoring admirers. But, as his manager, I’ll take the liberty of schmoozing anyone willing to buy. I’m Carla, by the way.”
She presses something against my palm. A business card, black and sleek with a glossy finish. Déjà vu strikes like a lance and I nearly drop it. It’s so similar to Simon’s calling card…
This font, however, is industrial silver. The address printed on one side is presumably Sampson’s base of operations.
“I can’t guarantee a meeting in pe
rson,” the woman warns. “But I won’t exactly turn you away if you’d like to look at his more…obscure collection.”
“Oh?”
Her mischievous wink ignites my curiosity. What pieces might a man like this deem too distasteful for the public eye? My chest tightens at the thought. From disgust? Or anticipation? I’m not in a hurry to decide.
Instead, I finger the card’s glossy front before slipping it inside my pocket. If I call a town car now, it would be roughly a ten-minute trip, delaying my opening of Simon’s gift just a little longer.
But would the delay be worth it?
I can’t settle on an answer during the short trip back to the lobby. The usual crush of people has dispersed, leaving just a few tenants and visitors milling about. This time of year, everyone wears some variation of a heavy coat, disguising the bulk of their features. Could one of them be Simon concealing my present beneath the winter layers?
I’d never know. He prefers to haunt me from afar, always watching. It’s his elusiveness that makes him so terrifying, especially back then…
“Are you okay, miss?” A hand brushes my shoulder, belonging to a security guard.
I nod and have no choice but to enter the elevator to keep up the façade.
I’m okay.
At least I am during the silent ride to my floor. Then the elevator doors part and my ruse slips once I find an empty hall, no wayward visitors in sight.
No distraction.
Slow, heavy steps carry me to my door. My palms sweat inside their gloves, which aggravates the healing scrapes. I shake them firmly in a vain attempt to dispel the nervous energy. When that fails, I lie to myself. You’re ready.
Or not.
As I round the corner, my eyes fixate on the glossy numbers on my door first before roving downward…
