by Isabel Wroth
“Mrs. Decker told the police she hadn't realized Elliot was missing until she finished putting the dishes in the dishwasher. That he'd escaped his playpen, crawled out the door, around the house, and into the fountain. Do you believe this report?”
“I don't. Elliot loved to be with people—to be held. If he really had escaped his playpen, he'd have crawled to Mrs. Decker and climbed up her leg until she picked him up. Elliot was extremely affectionate for a one-year-old. He loved to be held and cuddled.”
“So, what do you think really happened to Elliot?”
“I don't have proof beyond my own feelings, but I believe he was murdered.”
Convincingly aghast, Helena shook her head in dismay. “But why? Who would have cause to murder a baby?”
“I don't know, but I wish instead of taking off to Europe and purchasing lavish apartments in Paris and Greece, my parents would have spent my money investigating Elliot’s accident.”
Helena guffawed, tearing her glasses off as she set the reports aside and waved her hand my way. “Are you implying your parents abandoned you in a mental institution after your feelings of impending doom were proven valid, to have a European holiday?”
“I'm not implying. That's exactly what my parents did. Elliot was given no autopsy, his remains were cremated within two days of his death, and three days later, my parents were in Paris.”
I hoped the thick layer of makeup on my face was enough to hide the flush of rage I felt scalding the sensitive skin of my cheeks.
The struggle to keep my voice even and calm, was real. My heart thundered in my chest, and the acid in my stomach churned with enough force to sear my insides.
“They didn't call, they didn't write ... I didn't see them or speak to them for two years.”
“Your parents left you in a mental institution for two years while they traveled around Europe.” Helena made it a statement of angry disbelief.
I inclined my head to confirm. “Yes.”
“I've done my research, Josephine,” Helena told me gravely, pointing a rigid finger at the papers on the table. “Your alleged psychosis was never conclusively confirmed, and during your stay at Dr. Banes’s facility, you were interviewed by no less than eight psychiatrists, two scientists, and a priest—all while undergoing unnecessary electroshock therapy and medication therapies reserved for schizophrenic psychotics.
“I don't recall a single sound byte of your parents' recent interviews that said they were unaware of the treatment you received or that they didn't approve.
“Now you’re telling me, not only did they know how you were being treated, but they left you alone to grieve your brother’s death while undergoing what the supreme court of New York later decided was torture, by a doctor who is now serving a fifty-year sentence in a maximum-security prison upstate?”
“That's correct.”
“Unbelievable!” Helena huffed, slipping her glasses back on with a disapproving scowl. “What happened then?”
Callum caught my eye from across the room, nodding to me and offering a gentle, supportive smile.
I took a breath, like Helena had coached me to do if the emotion got the better of me, and fought not to let fifteen years of anger and resentment blast free from my mouth.
“Two years after being placed in the institution, without warning, my parents showed up and checked me out. They brought me home, showered me with expensive gifts, and congratulated me on getting better and doing so well in my treatments.
“I was no longer drugged and tortured, and I didn't have to listen to the screaming of my fellow patients or constantly be on my guard.
“I felt like I'd been liberated from hell. I was so happy to be home that at first I didn't question why. It wasn't long before I realized the only reason my parents had come for me was because they'd run out of my money and needed more.
“The paintings I did after returning from the facility were some of my best, and unfortunately for my parents, they hired a new housekeeper who saw right through their act and became my ally.
“Rebecca saved me. She helped me find a lawyer and paid the retainer fees with her own money. She drove me to the appointments necessary to begin the emancipation process, kept quiet, and protected me when she could by making sure I had everything I needed to take control of my own life.
“She stayed with me every step of the way. If not for her, I would have been under my parents’ thumb for years, working to provide them with a lavish lifestyle they didn't have to lift a finger for.”
Nigel caught my eye from behind Helena, pantomiming taking a deep breath and silently encouraging me to slow down.
Am I ranting? Oops. Deep breath, Jo. Viewers want to see you calm and collected, not on a rampage.
After a beat of silence and a thumbs up from Nigel, I fell back into the rhythm of my story.
“They no longer had access to my money, nor the homes they had purchased in and out of the country, and they couldn’t approach me due to a restraining order I filed, which granted me five hundred yards of distance from them at all time. As you can imagine, this upset them.
“I gave them a settlement of five percent of my fiscal wealth at the time, which came out to fifty-thousand dollars, and told them I wasn't interested in speaking to them ever again.
“They moved to Florida, were forced to get menial jobs to make ends meet, and went from living in this mansion to a one-bedroom apartment.
“Up until my ex-boyfriend sold photos and outlandish stories to the tabloids and my life became the subject of ridicule and speculation, I hadn't heard from my parents in over fifteen years.”
My gaze was drawn past Helena, beyond the camera, to where Callum was holding up the wall with his broad shoulders.
He'd heard my story before—I'd explained it to him a few times at the top of my lungs during some uh ... heated discussions—but his face was still carved from granite as he was overcome with fury on my behalf.
Our eyes met, and his lips quirked as his gaze softened, just for me. For a moment, the memories of pain and fear faded to a bearable throb.
My fingers went to the platinum bracelet on my arm, reminding myself that even though Callum wasn't holding my hand, he was still with me.
He saw me touch the gift he'd given me last night, and though his smile didn't widen, he lifted his hand and touched his fingertips to his chest. To his heart.
Macho and proud my man was, but he wasn't too macho or too proud to give me the silent reassurance that I had his heart and his love.
“Josephine, would it be too much to ask to see Elliot's room?”
And just like that, Helena's question was salt to wounds already ripped wide open.
She'd warned me she might ask to see my brother's nursery, and yet it was still an unimaginably painful blow.
In order to bring light to the shadows and uncertainty surrounding Elliot's death, and to cast doubt on those who might believe I'd been a danger to my brother, the audience needed to see my reaction upon entering a room I hadn't been in for years.
“No. Of course not.”
We took a short break to allow the camera guys to set up their equipment in Elliot's room. I needed a minute alone, but just as I was about to shut the door to the bathroom, Callum slipped inside with me, deaf to my protests that I was fine, and locked the door behind him before he wrapped his arms around me and held on tight.
“Almost done, Jo,” he told me softly.
I understood right then: I needed this—him—not alone time.
The surge of emotions I'd spent the last hour and a half trying to choke back, finally ebbed. Heartbeat by heartbeat, I breathed easier.
“This will all be over soon,” he whispered in my ear.
My fingers curled into the soft material of his thermal, and I inhaled his scent deep into my lungs, soaking up the warmth of his body.
“I'm glad you're here,” I whispered back.
“Wouldn't be anywhere else.”
Someone
knocked on the bathroom door. The flinch I gave in reaction was involuntary, but it only made Callum hug me closer.
“GB? They're ready whenever you are.”
“Be out in a minute, Nigel!” I called back, but to Callum, I confessed I wasn't ready.
He palmed my hair and laid his cheek on top of my head. “They'll wait, baby. As long as you need.”
I made Helena and her crew wait almost a half an hour before I was ready to step into Elliot's nursery.
HELENA AND I CLIMBED the grand staircase, up to the third floor and down the hall to the tall white door of Elliot's nursery. Before he'd been brought home, I'd carefully painted Elliot's name in calligraphy.
When he was eight months old, I'd brushed blue paint on his palms and pressed one hand, then the other, on either side of his name.
For a moment, I completely forgot I was being filmed as I lifted my hand to trace the chubby little fingers, hearing a phantom echo of Elliot's giggle.
It was a sweet memory that made me smile to remember it, and as I laid my own hand side by side to compare how much bigger my hand was to Elliot's, I pictured him as he might have been now—all grown up.
He would have been twenty-one years old.
“What are you thinking about right now, Jo?” Helena's gentle question made me blink, feeling the hot slide of tears on my cheeks.
I hastily wiped them away and gave Elliot's handprint one more stroke. “I was trying to imagine what Elliot might have looked like as a grown man.”
“Did you look much alike?”
I laughed softly as I pushed open the door, stepping inside the beautiful nursery I'd helped create.
“Not at all. Elliot had golden blonde hair, hazel eyes, and the sweetest little dimples.”
“Strange, as your parents are both of a darker complexion,” Helena commented idly, strolling around the room to look at the photos set on one of the dressers.
The man, the huge camera on its tripod, and the lights set up to highlight the room were incredibly distracting, but I did my best follow Helena’s lead and forget he was there.
“Did you paint this?” Helena waved her hand to indicate the floor to ceiling mural on the same wall as Elliot's crib.
Inspired by the pre-Raphaelite art I'd been studying at the time, the French provincial style mural was of a whimsical forest scene and done in muted shades of green, blue, cream, and gray.
“Yes. I finished it nine days before my parents brought Elliot home.”
“It's lovely. Do you think someday you'll paint something like this for your own children?”
Helena's innocent question hit me hard; the irrational fear that a child of mine would inherit something from me other than my black hair or blue eyes was too terrifying to even consider.
“I don't plan on having children,” I answered calmly, saving the child I wouldn't ever have from suffering the burden of my curse.
LEAVES AND GRAVEL CRUNCHED under my boots, and the cold air burned my lungs as I pulled in the scent of smoke, damp earth, and evergreen.
Once Helena called our interview to a close and I couldn't take a single question more, Callum wordlessly pulled me out of the house for this much-needed walk to shake off the ghosts of my past.
“Did you mean it?” Callum's somber question broke the peaceful quiet as we strolled along the forested path that wound through the trees behind the mansion.
I held his hand, my cheek resting on his bicep, my other hand curled just above his elbow in the thick wool of his peacoat.
“Mean what?”
“That you don't plan on having kids.”
My stomach twisted, and for a second, I couldn't speak at all.
Callum's voice was devoid of emotion, but I knew his tone only went that neutral when he felt deeply about whatever he was talking about.
Of course, he would want children. There was no doubt in my mind he would be a spectacular father, and I doubted he would want to stop at just one.
Callum deserved that. He deserved to have a normal family, and I could never give him that.
“I meant it. I won't risk passing my curse on, and I don’t want to pick up a blanket or a little sock and paint the death of my own baby. If someday that becomes a deal-breaker for you, I understand, but I can't—"
Callum stopped so suddenly I stumbled forward and would have kept going if he hadn't tugged on my hand and pulled me around to smack right up against his chest.
I caught the tail end of his grimace, but it was tempered by compassionate understanding.
“Jo, you not wanting kids isn't a deal-breaker.”
Callum had always been honest with me, but right now, I wish he'd lied.
He said it wasn't a deal-breaker, but in my gut, I knew it there would come a day when it was.
I looked up into his beautiful eyes and pictured him carrying a tiny carbon copy of himself on his shoulders while the little boy—with chubby baby arms clenched around Callum's forehead—giggled and laughed.
The image was so clear, it was easy to believe in a world where that dark-haired, dark-eyed boy was real.
But I couldn't be his mother. I wouldn't be.
“It should be a deal-breaker, Cal. I know you'll be an amazing father.” My throat closed around those last words, but instead of agreeing with me, Callum lifted his strong hands to cradle my cheeks.
“Psychic moment?” he teased with a gentle smirk.
“Callum!”
“Jo,” he replied patiently, “I get your fear. I know where it comes from, but living in fear of the future isn't living.
“Ask my parents if they would still have had Mia knowing she would someday be killed.”
“I guarantee you, they'd say they would have, and made sure they loved her twice as hard every day until she was gone.
“Nothing would make me walk away from what we have, and I don't mind being the sole focus of your love and attention.”
Of course, he would make sense when I was trying to give him a way out and look right through me, with that sexy glare, and still love what he saw.
Damnit. Total Kryptonite.
“I hate it when you do that,” I grumbled.
His lips canted in a smirk, and his eyes sparkled with amusement.
“Do what?”
“Be all wise, logical, and shit.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders and dropped a hot, firm, kiss on my trembling lips before folding me up in a tight hug.
“Of course you do. What woman likes to have the wind taken out of her sails when she's on a cruise to Crazytown?”
I smacked his firm ass, the only place I could reach with him crushing me to his chest, and announced, “I was not on a cruise to Crazytown!”
“Yes, baby, you were, but it's okay. I still love you.”
“I love you, too,” I murmured with my lips snuggled against his throat.
“I know,” he told me arrogantly, squeezing me hard enough to make the breath wheeze out of me. “So, now that we've blown past Crazytown, how about we make a plan to discuss your latest POD with Helena?”
Well, shit. I'd forgotten all about it.
CHAPTER SIX
To my shock, the plans Callum and I made for discussing Helena's impending murder with her turned out to be a complete waste of time.
After we came back from our walk, we found Marcy in the process of cooking dinner for everyone, John was assisting, and both Nigel and Helena were seated on barstools enjoying a glass of expensive wine.
Dear ole Dad had acquired quite a collection in the cellar. I noticed the cameramen were nowhere to be seen, and when I asked, Helena waved her hand dismissively.
“They've gone back to the city to put everything together. I'm glad because I wanted to discuss something with you, Josephine. Off the record.”
With a quick, uncertain glance up at Callum, I let go of his hand and sat on the stool beside Helena, murmuring my thanks when Nigel poured me a glass of wine.
A tall glass of wine.
Bless him.
I couldn't help the spurt of apprehension when Helena swiveled her stool all the way around to face me.
“Off the record?” I repeated, sounding like a stepped-on squeaky toy.
Helena set down her glass, gave her extremely fluffy hair a toss, and pinned me with her intense stare.
“Is there truth to the tabloid stories about you? Do you have the ability to foretell a person's death?”
The silence in the kitchen was immediate. Like a wet blanket dampening the sound, and no one breathed while they waited for me to answer.
“Rest assured, I make no plans whatsoever to share your answer with the public or in any report. I'm asking to satisfy my own curiosity.”
Helena's stare was unwavering, but as I stared back, I noticed the hint of fear in eyes that had seen war, violence, death, and all the horror that accompanied it.
This woman, who'd charged into the middle of war-torn countries to bring the truth of the terrible things being done in the name of gods and governments, was scared.
Helena Markowitz wasn't afraid of psychics, but she was afraid of something. It seemed stupid to try and lie.
So lamely, I said, “Sort of.”
Everyone took a breath around me. Callum's hand slid up my spine to settle on my nape, and Helena gave a shrewd arch of her tangerine brow.
“Sort of? How does one 'sort of' foretell a person's death?”
Callum's hand tightened on the back of my neck, and I took a hefty gulp of wine to wet my suddenly dry mouth.
“Well, it's not exactly voluntary. I don't sit down and read tarot cards or stare into a crystal ball. If I touch something belonging to a person destined to be murdered, I have ... an episode.
“Me and my conscious mind shut down, some force I don't have a name for pours in, and I'm compelled to paint or draw the person who'll be killed in the moment following their death.”
“An item such as an earring?” Helena asked bluntly.
I frowned, my head giving a little tilt to the side as I considered Helena's earring finding its way into my couch cushions wasn't an accident.
