by Lana Sky
And settle on my gray welcome mat.
Five seconds of searching pass before I finally accept that it’s empty.
My stomach churns, wrestling with the remains of overly sweet cake and non-alcoholic champagne. How I hate surprises. For the first time in years, Simon’s late. Either that or he’s settled on a new spot to leave my first gift of the night. Inside? I take my time fishing my keys from my pocket, but the door budges at the slightest touch, already opened a hairline crack.
I shove my hand into my pocket for my cell phone, but I can’t explain what makes me push the door open wider without calling 911. Yet.
The light switch lurks just beyond my reach, but I don’t flip it. I have a visitor, it seems, who prefers the darkness over the typical introduction: his scent gives him away. Spicy. Masculine. Wrong.
Daddy doesn’t smell like this.
Neither do the doormen or usual security guards.
Neither does Simon.
My new intruder’s cologne itches like pepper among an amalgam of different scents: shaving cream, rich liquor, and the faintest hint of sweat.
I should call the police, anything but call out, “Who are you?”
“Buenas noches.” The raspy baritone is the most alarming attribute of all. It reaches out to me from the living room, carrying a thick accent. “Do come in. Don’t mind the intrusion—and I wouldn’t call the police if I were you.” The warning comes as my thumb twitches against my phone’s touchscreen. “They tend to be so easy to corrupt.”
“There…there are armed guards downstairs,” I croak.
His answering laugh is a slap to the face. “Again,” he continues, “easily bought off, Ms. Thorne. Even your father’s reputation can only go so far. Come in. Have a seat. I merely want to talk. This shouldn’t take long.”
His mention of my father triggers a cold suspicion. Perhaps his warning wasn’t for nothing. I’m in the living room before I know it, rounding the leather chaise to find a man sitting on it. Alarmingly massive, he transforms the spacious room into a claustrophobic prison. Yellow lights from nearby buildings give vague definition to his frame: a strong jawline veiled by the shadow of long, black hair neatly tied back into a ponytail. The outline of a blindfold, worn even now, stands out in stark contrast to his skin.
I should have recognized him from his voice alone. The man from the gallery.
And suddenly so much makes sense.
“Are you… You’re Damien Villa,” I rasp. My stab in the dark lands more accurately than I’d like. Another bit of laughter is my reward, decidedly colder than before.
“Ah, perdóname,” he murmurs. “The innocent daughter of Judge Thorne turns out to be not so innocent after all. And I was inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt, Juliana.”
“What do you want?” I take a step back, aware of the fact that the door is still open behind me.
“To talk,” he says.
“Talk? You mean use me to threaten Heyworth Thorne? Go ahead. You can try. Then get the hell out.” My callous laugh rings hollow. I sound weak, not brave. Tired and pathetic. “I’m sick of you goddamn people wanting to hold him accountable for one goddamn mistake—”
“Ah, perdóname, but you misunderstand.” His voice contains the same qualities as lightning. Biting. Stinging. Raw. “My current visit has nothing to do with your father, Juliana. This is about an entirely personal matter.”
Personal?
“The painting you bought,” he continues before I can question. “I ask that you return it. That wasn’t meant for you.”
My painting. I crane my neck and spot the rough outline of my new possession. The morbid hues feed off what little light there is, creating a ghoulish effect: glowing, dead eyes staring directly into mine.
“I bought it,” I say. Though the reminder might be for myself more than him. I bought it. I own it. Mine.
“Oh, but that was a mistake,” Damien murmurs with chilling insistence. “On your part. It was never for sale, especially not to the likes of you. Return it to me and I shall overlook this…insult.”
“Insult?” I cross the room, observing the painting in all its gory, disturbing detail. The artist’s intentions elude me still—cloaked in layers of color and shades of mystery. “How could what I think insult you? Unless…you’re Sampson.” It’s not a question. In a way, I’m stating something I probably already knew.
A madman isn’t content to just let his show be displayed unseen. No. He must watch the people watching. He must gauge the full effect. Terror and disgust form the icing on his masterpiece, and he doesn’t feel complete without a taste of it.
“The painting belongs to me,” he says, evading the subject of his identity. “I’ll make the arrangements to have it returned—”
“No. It’s mine.” I look back at him to watch my words register. “You can’t have it.”
“Oh?” He stares ahead through the fabric of his blindfold, seemingly transfixed by the view beyond my windows. “Should I take something of yours, then, as retribution?”
My body jolts at the sound of his voice, reacting without permission. Daddy had a pit bull once. Danger was his name. Every now and again, while dozing peacefully by the fireplace, Danger would suddenly startle awake and bark at the shadows. Daddy would shout at him to quiet down, but the beast only settled when whatever unseen threat he’d sensed diminished.
My nerves feel like that now. Humming with awareness of an ominous presence my eyes refuse to register.
“Are you threatening me?” I manage to ask.
“Negotiating,” he retorts. “Despite whatever you think of me…I won’t have my art used as a pawn, if you please.”
“What I think?” Laughing, I shake my head. “I don’t even know you.”
“But I know you, and I know your family. Tell me: Did you enjoy strolling into my exhibition, aware of all eyes on you?”
He’s implying something, though I’m not sure what. Something obscene, I think. Cruel.
“I live here,” I point out. “Why shouldn’t I attend an event held in my fucking lobby? And why hate me?” I add before he can get a word in edgewise. “I am not my father.”
“Ah… But you think like him. So entitled to that which was never yours to claim.”
Few men could speak the way he does and pack quite the same punch. A criminal, Daddy said. Funny, because this man sounds like a judge, someone accustomed to handing down punishments for any perceived snub.
“I’ll return your money in full, of course.”
“Keep it.” Knowing that its supposed creator now sits behind me, I perceive the portrait from a different angle.
The woman’s slight, desperate pout makes more sense. Paired with the unmistakable attractiveness of Damien, her final fate feels all the more tragic.
“So is it true that you use these to launder money?” I sound so disappointed. Though what a stupid question. Of course the art is a gimmick. “Do you?”
Silence lingers between us, forcing me to come up with my own answers. I always did my research when it came to the people in my orbits. Clients. Friends. Possible dates. I learned the hard way that it’s better to suspect someone’s potential motives from the outset—not that it’s hard. The average person tends to fit into the same few categories like a book, easily judged within a few short minutes of conversation. Thriller. Boring contemporary. Paltry mystery. Tabloid.
Dangerous or not, Damien is no different from the egos and corporate giants I decipher for a living.
“How much do you pay them, your models?” I wonder, employing my usual trick of rapid-fire questioning. “Do you sleep with them? Do you photograph them first? How do you get them to look like that—”
“Do you think this is a game?”
Oh. I cross my arms to guard against his tone. So he doesn’t want to play. Fair enough. I’ll have to take a page from Daddy’s book and judge him off his cover alone.
My eyes narrow, seeking out what little detail I can
in the dark. I expect to find him brooding—most artists are. Instead, he’s pensive. His voice betrays the impatience his body does not. He’s all smooth lines and lean muscle, reminding me of a predator benevolent enough to hiss in warning before pouncing for the kill.
“Not a game,” I concede. “As I said, the painting is mine. You can’t have it.”
“Oh?” That word again. So simple. So subtle. His voice is like music, containing more subtext in the underlying melody than the actual lyrics. “I would ask you to reconsider, Ms. Thorne.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“And perhaps I’ll think about returning something of yours.”
My throat goes dry as I process his tone. Then I remember.
Ice washes over me with an intensity I’ve never felt in my entire life. Not all those years ago in the forest. Not moments ago when I found an intruder in my home.
For the first time ever…I forgot. Simon. His game.
I forgot.
“W-was there something on my doorstep?” Even I can hear the tremor in my voice.
And like a shark sensing a single drop of blood, he cocks his head. “Sí. There was… A bit old for dolls, aren’t you?”
No.
As I watch, he withdraws something from his pocket and my heart twinges in recognition: a porcelain doll with carefully coiffed blond hair.
“Sammy,” I whisper, horrified. “Give it to me!” I reach for it but stop short, inches away, as his posture shifts.
“Should I?” He’s running his fingers through the doll’s hair, disrupting her neat coif. Simon always took care to style it the same way. Like she did.
“Give it back.” My breaths quicken, shallow and ineffective. The doll’s face is visible from here, illuminated by a strip of neon-yellow light. Glassy eyes. Painted grin. Rosy, red cheeks. It’s a replica, but one so damn close to the real thing…
“You can have her if you want,” Leslie pleaded, grasping at my hands. “Just don’t be mad at me.”
No! I fight the memory back with bared teeth. “Give it back—”
He lifts the doll by her tiny waist, and I lunge forward. At the last second, he pulls her out of my reach, testing just how much I want it. Enough that a ripping sound echoes as I clench her tiny body in my fist and try to tug her free.
But he’s too strong. Without warning, he stands, shrugging me off as easily as a gnat. “Sammy,” he murmurs, a chuckle lacing his tone. “It even has a name?”
The color drains from my cheeks. She does. We have a ritual, Simon and I. His favorite tool of torture is my own memory. Samantha. She was Leslie’s favorite character to spin our games of house around. Such a perfect doll, ten times more expensive than anything I could ever afford.
Sammy, beautiful Sammy, was the source behind our only fight ever.
Sammy, stupid Sammy, was the reason Leslie died.
“Please,” I rasp, knowing I could never overpower him. “Give it back.”
“I will. When you return what is mine.” He turns while manipulating something in his free hand. Slender, thin. Long. It extends as I watch: a white cane he taps against the floor.
“I’ll show myself out,” he says at the exact moment I utter, “You’re blind?”
“Have a wonderful night, Ms. Thorne.” He starts for my door, using the cane for guidance.
So the eye covering isn’t for dramatic effect. Yet I’m unconvinced he isn’t putting on an act. He moves too confidently, every motion smooth and assured. Almost like he learned the layout of my apartment down to the slight right angle one must turn to enter the foyer and approach the still open door.
“Pleasant dreams,” he tells me as he crosses the threshold.
It’s only when he’s gone that I remember how to move. I slam the door in his wake and engage the lock. I’m not afraid. Liar, my body claims. Muscle and bone go limp in defiance and I’m forced to brace my weight against my palms to catch my breath.
Tap. Tap. The tap of his cane forms a morbid tune that tracks the departure of Damien.
Eventually, the sound trails off and I’m alone again.
With Simon? It’s his time to shine, after all. Day two. Sammy was the second present. Dread solidifies in my stomach; I know where I’ll find the third.
I push from the door and sway to regain my balance. It’s like I’m transported back all those years ago. Locked in the dark, forced to feel my way through touch. Forward, using the wall as a guide. To the left. Down a little more. Right. The floor beneath me switches to smooth tile, and I feel along the wall for the light switch.
Harsh iridescence plunges everything into stark relief. The white walls I never bothered to paint. The pristine countertops still stained with blood. The broken mirror displaying fractured pieces of a hundred different Julianas.
I had the workers skip this room for a reason.
Simon still hasn’t grown tired of this hiding place. My present waits in plain sight, lying across the sink basin. A single rose, snow-white. A red ribbon encircles the stalk, choking it. The allusion is less obvious than Sammy, but it’s memorable nonetheless. A white woolen hat kept brown curls warm paired with a long scarf in a bloody shade of red. Her red.
I’ll humor Simon tonight. I don’t run screaming from the room or crawl to my stash of wine. My exhausted body deposits me there, right beside the door, and I sit and stare. I won’t remember fully—not yet.
There is still one more puzzle piece to be delivered.
One more day to play the game.
He’ll win in the end. He always does.
And in a year, we’ll play again.
It’s one of those mornings that pounces, going right for the jugular, ushering in another day of toeing that invisible boundary between hunter and hunted. Simon claims nightfall. It’s only fair. I’ll have to leave my suite before sundown and return after, just in time to open my final present.
Finding a diversion shouldn’t be such a hard task.
I could take Daddy up on his offer and visit more often. Let him see how happy and wonderful I am. He doesn’t have to worry, no siree.
Or…
I can crawl on my hands and knees into my bedroom and drink Moscato straight from the bottle. Imbibed with liquid courage, I manage to stand using my bedframe as a crutch and stumble into my closet.
Without bothering to shower, I peel off my stale birthday dress and pull on a black sweater and pants—but I can’t shake the feeling that something is missing as I enter the kitchen. While the coffee maker runs, I lean against the counter and tap my foot. Eventually, my fingers join in, abusing the granite like a makeshift piano. I can’t put a name to the sensation building in my veins. It’s almost like I hear a clock counting down the hours to some unknown event. Tick. Tock.
My coffee starts to pour. The steady drip of liquid into the pot feeds the building suspense like a match over a flame.
Drip.
Drop.
A knock on the door echoes to silence as the last few dregs of coffee anticlimactically drip down to join the majority steaming in the pot.
“Who is it?” I call to no response.
Strange. I don’t get visitors. Not ones who come announced through the front door without the aid of a shadowy reputation or stealth to hide behind. Damien? I swallow hard and reluctantly leave the caffeine behind.
A glance through the peephole reveals the face of a stranger. Not Simon. Certainly not Damien. This man is younger, with closely cropped brown curls and a wary smile.
“Delivery for Juliana Thorne,” he declares, offering up a potted plant when I crack the door.
The flowers, branching from twisted stems, are small and white. More delicate than Simon’s symbolic rose, and nothing like the carnations Daddy sends.
“They’re beautiful.” I start to finger a wayward petal.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the courier warns. “This stuff is oleander. Really toxic. Here—” He juggles the plant on one hand and withdraws an e
nvelope from his pocket with the other.
My name is written on it. I accept both and the man disappears before I can voice a single question.
Not that I have to. Flowers and mystique seem to be the calling cards of one artist in particular.
Though I must give the man credit. He knows his floral arrangements. Oleander blends in beautifully with the muted colors of my kitchen. White over gray and poison over granite make a splendid combination. Who knew?
I pour myself a mug of coffee and take my time peeling the envelope open bit by bit. Inside, I find a black card almost entirely covered in painted versions of my deadly, white flowers. Running my fingers over the designs barely convinces me they aren’t real, each one lavished with detail. I can still smell the fresh acrylic. Still see the deliberate, careful strokes of the artist lurking within every line and streak of ivory. Inside the card is a simple message written in a stark, uniformed script.
Sammy and I hope you reconsider—D.
Of all the emotions to feel, intrigue shouldn’t be one of them. Did the blind man write his own threatening message?
My racing heartbeat distracts me from pondering the answer. It hammers away at my eardrums. Thump. Thump. Rough parchment and dried paint brush my fingertips as they continue to stroke the tiny flowers. Despite the courier’s warning, I’m afraid the artificial oleander might pack the most potent punch. Its tiny vines and leaves invade my thoughts, planting dangerous ideas. Like the memory of the card in my pocket and the address of a certain artist’s gallery. Images of doll-like eyes and porcelain skin. Red. Roses. Death.
And my actual doll he stole.
Simon’s time is nearing, but two additional cups of coffee don’t ease the transition of time. Minutes linger, and I’m left without a distraction. Alone in an ocean of idleness without a paddle.
Writing. I could try that. But when I finally fish a pen from a kitchen drawer, my first impulse isn’t to jot down notes for a new campaign. It’s a name. I write it out in black ink, arranging the letters over a napkin. Damien. Thank you for the flowers, I start to pen. Halfway through, I stop and toss the makeshift note into the trash.
