“I would, but…it’s only been two months, and I…” My heart was breaking, because I wanted to, so badly, and at the same time I knew that I couldn’t. I loved Owen, and I knew he cared for me, but moving away with him—moving in with him? He’d have to let go of Suze, and he wouldn’t be able to do that any more than I could start over from nothing once again. I hadn’t had any time to learn how to make my own choices, to be my own person. How could I do that if I lived with him, forever in Suze’s shadow?
“I wish I could,” I told him honestly, wiping a tear from my skin. “I wish it so much.”
“I know. Me, too.” He rested his forehead against mine. “God, M., you risked your life for me today. If you’d been hurt because of me—how could I ever live with myself?”
“I’m so sorry, Owen… Scott went crazy because of me. He wouldn’t believe that it was Rhys—”
He gripped my shoulders. “Don’t. It’s not your fault. It’s me. People here will take any excuse to see me as a monster.”
I shook my head, fighting back more tears. “Not everyone. I think most of the people here don’t even know you. If only they had a chance to get to know you, without all of this hanging over you…”
“It’ll always be here,” he said. “It’s been seven years.”
I just couldn’t believe that there was nothing we could do. That we had to resign ourselves to these choices.
“You were right about me.” Owen pulled away from me and walked out into the dark driveway. “I’ve stayed here this whole time because I thought I deserved it. Everything. The death threats. The two years in jail.”
“Two years!” I said, stunned. “Why did you spend two years in jail?”
“I was waiting for trial, twice. There was a mistrial the first time. The judge wouldn’t let me out on bail… Said I was too dangerous. I was twenty-one years old when I went in. Just a stupid kid.”
“Jesus.” I pressed my hands to my mouth.
Frowning at the ground, he shrugged his big shoulders. “I got angry about it sometimes, and then I would think…if I hadn’t cancelled on Suze that night, she wouldn’t have died. And then jail seemed like just the right place for me.”
“Owen…you didn’t kill Suze.”
“You’re the only one who believes that,” he said. “I can accept the mistake I made. I can accept the way people here see me. But I can’t let you get in the middle of it.”
I stepped towards him helplessly. “What does that mean?”
He sighed. His eyes were downcast, his lashes casting shadows across his cheeks. “I don’t know. I should leave—it would be better, for you, for everyone, if I did. But I don’t want to. Not without you.”
I started to speak, to apologize again, but he stopped me with the gentlest touch of his thumb to my lower lip. “I don’t mean it like that. I’d never want you to—to give up your independence for me.”
A tear rolled down my cheek. He moved his hand to catch it, his palm brushing my jaw.
“I just meant that wherever you are is where I want to be.” His thumb slid across my lip again. “I poison everything I touch.”
“That’s not true.”
He swept my hair out of my eyes and kissed me lightly on the mouth. “I should go. Good night, M.”
With one last, lingering look at me, he walked back into the house.
Chapter 25
Kaye and Andy were sitting in near darkness, with the television turned on to the local news channel and the volume all the way down. The TV screen was showing pictures of Owen’s blown-out garage wall. Ticker tape running underneath read:
Vigilante justice? Bombing at home of accused murderer in Fall Island—
My hands curled into fists. “Can we turn this off?”
Kaye looked up. She grabbed the remote and switched off the TV. “M., I didn’t hear you come home. Are you okay? What happened?”
I told them about looking in Scott’s room and going over to Owen’s just in time for the bomb to go off.
I didn’t tell them that afterwards Owen had asked me to move away with him, and I had said no.
“I’m so glad you guys weren’t hurt,” Kaye said, her eyes bigger than ever, rimmed with red.
Andy was sitting in one of our armchairs, his forearms draped across his knees. He looked more tired than I’d ever seen him. His expression was disconcertingly hollow.
“Scott called Andy from jail,” Kaye said, glancing at Andy with concern sloping her mouth.
“I was his one phone call,” Andy murmured.
“Oh.” I didn’t know it was possible to feel any sadder than I already did. “Andy, it wasn’t your fault.”
“I know,” Andy said, but he slumped forwards and pressed his face into his hands. “I always knew Scott had problems, but I thought…if he just had someone he could count on, you know? He’d never had that before. I thought I could do that for him.”
“He was better before Suze died,” Kaye said, more to me than to Andy. “It was like…after she died, he gave up hope. Even though he’d finally gotten away from his folks. He just didn’t care about anything anymore.”
“He was obsessed with her.” I cleared my throat. “Claire thinks he’s the one who killed her. Because of that.”
“Maybe he was obsessed with her,” Kaye said. “But he was with us that night. Violet had a party, and he was there the whole time. I remember he was pissed when Suze didn’t show. She was supposed to stop by with Owen, but she never did. She’d started blowing us off a lot by then, though,” Kaye added bleakly. “I remember complaining about it with Vi. Really wish I could take those words back now.”
“You didn’t know,” I said, my heart breaking for her.
She shook her head. “I thought I knew Scott, but the guy I knew would never have done this. It’s like losing another friend, just like Suze…” A tear rolled down Kaye’s face and splashed on the knee of her jeans. “Is Owen okay? Was there a lot of damage?”
“Some damage to his workshop.” I didn’t want to mention that Owen, too, had seemed so damaged.
“I feel really bad about this. If I hadn’t talked about Owen in front of Scott, maybe Scott wouldn’t have…”
I shook my head. “Scott was sending Owen death threats for years. If anything set him off, it was me. I saw Scott just as he was arrested, and he said that I remind him of Suze.”
“Oh,” Kaye said. “Well—yeah, a bit. You’re sort of—vivid, like she was.”
“I don’t think Miranda is anything like Suze,” Andy snapped, getting abruptly to his feet and walking over to the fridge for a beer. “You’re much nicer than she was.”
“Andy,” Kaye scolded him.
“Well, it’s true.” Andy sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m just—I should’ve looked after Scott more. And Owen. I should have done something years ago to stop all of this bullshit. He’s been through enough, for fuck’s sake.”
“What could you have done?” Kaye asked. “You can’t fix everything, Andy.”
He shook his head, with his jaw set stubbornly, and took a swig of beer. Andy and I, as different as we were, were not actually so different sometimes.
I sank down onto the couch next to Kaye, lost in thought. Scott was obsessed with Suze, but he’d been with Andy and Kaye the night she’d drowned. So, it couldn’t have been him…could it? And if not him—then who? Who would have wanted to hurt Beloved By All?
Owen had said they’d investigated Jonas Whittaker. But apart from Jonas, there’d been Muscles, and there had probably been other exes, too. I didn’t know if they’d investigated those boys.
I’d seen enough of the town to know there were plenty of people here, who, like Scott, had worshipped Suze. There had to be people who’d resented her for being so beloved. And then there were those, like Miserable Margot, who’d done some of both.
When I thought about it like that, though, it could have been anyone in this whole town.
I dreamed about Suze again that night.<
br />
She stood at the foot of my bed. Moonlight glimmered on her fair skin and in her light-colored eyes. Watching me intently, she plucked a strand of hair from her head and looped it around my wrist. It came alive when it touched my skin, glowing red. Just like it had in the first dream, it burned into my flesh. She motioned for me to follow and turned away, her curls spilling across her slim, freckled shoulders.
Suddenly, I stood by the sea, on the narrow, boulder-riddled path where Owen and I had first kissed.
In the middle of Fall Island Bay, floating just above the water and glowing like a fallen star, was Suze. She wanted me to go to her. The strand of hair around my wrist pulled me forwards.
I stepped onto the surface of the ocean. My toes did not break the water’s cold, smooth surface. The shoreline west and north of me vanished into the darkness as I moved from wave to wave.
Soon I was close enough to make out Suze’s features through the white light that shone all around her. Her eyes were closed, as if she were sleeping.
Slowly, she began to sink into the water. I tried to cry out, to beg her to wait for me, and I would save her—somehow I would save her—but by the time I got to her, all that remained was her hair, floating on the water’s surface, like coils of copper wire on a dark mirror. Then that, too, began to sink. Red leeched out of each strand into the blue-black water, creating a strange, blurry tableau of black and red tendrils.
I woke up with a gasp, thinking: her paintings.
At the Graveside the next morning, the windows were still dark; the place was as eerie as ever.
On the heavy, wooden door was a doorknocker in the shape of a cherub, holding a ring in his fat, dimpled hands. I knocked. “Mrs. Gautier?” No sounds came from within, so I knocked again, praying she would be there. I’d assumed she lived on the second floor of her odd, tiny castle, but only because I couldn’t imagine her anywhere else.
Just as I was about to give up, the door creaked open, and Mrs. Gautier stuck her head out. “Excuse me, we are shut—Miss Lewis! Did you bring your painting?”
“No,” I said apologetically. “I have to ask you for a favor. It’s about Suze.”
“Oh.” She gave me a puzzled frown. “Of course. Please come in.” She opened the door.
I walked into a cool, dark entrance hall hung with paintings. “This is a beautiful place.”
Mrs. Gautier didn’t quite smile, but her frown lessened. “Thank you. What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you have any of Suze’s portraits.”
Suze’s painting of Scott had reminded me of Suze’s own self-portrait, as if the two of them had shared an obsessive quality. In Suze’s case, I had to imagine it was her art, but in Scott’s case, it was clearly Suze. And Suze had known that, and had captured it perfectly. It made me wonder what else Suze had hidden inside her paintings.
Mrs. Gautier peered thoughtfully at me. “She didn’t do many portraits, I’m afraid. She did mostly landscapes. Let me show you.”
I’d been afraid of that answer, but I followed her anyway through two small rooms, where paintings of all different sizes were hung, salon-style, from floor to ceiling.
“She is in the back, with the permanent collections,” Mrs. Gautier told me, as if Suze would be sitting back there, having a cup of coffee. “Here we are.”
The back room was that curious mix of death and life I’d come to expect from Suze. The stone floor and mullioned windows were somber and church-like, but Suze’s paintings were bright and loud and more alive than any of the paintings we’d passed on our way in.
“This is the closest I have to a portrait,” Mrs. Gautier said, leading me across the room to a painting of a man and a woman sitting at a wrought-iron table in a lush Impressionist garden. The man had a sunburned face and a trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. He was looking over the top of his newspaper at the redheaded woman sitting beside him, while she, in the middle of pouring a cup of tea, smiled sidelong back at him.
“Her parents.” Mrs. Gautier nodded at the painting. “Very nice people.”
“It’s lovely.” It reminded me of Owen’s portrait, even though the two paintings were quite different. They shared the same simplicity, the same straightforward beauty. She had painted her parents as if they were all happiness, the same way she’d painted Owen.
The thought struck me that she had done that deliberately—not to erase their complexity, but to express how she felt for each person she’d depicted.
She had loved him, too, in her own way, even if she hadn’t always been kind to him.
“They were heartbroken after she died, of course,” Mrs. Gautier continued, still looking at the painting of Suze’s parents. “They moved up to Canada and gave many of her paintings away. They gave me this one, in fact, along with several others.” She gestured at the small tag underneath the painting: From the collection of Harry and Abigail White.
She swept across the room again. “You must see this seascape. It’s from their collection as well.”
We stopped in front of a seascape resplendent in blues and violets, with just a stripe of pale orange on the horizon, as if the sun had just set. Cliffs dotted with bristly black trees framed the sea, just like—
“This is the mate to the seascape that was at the Artist’s Lodge,” I said with a jolt of recognition, remembering the magnificent rising sun.
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Gautier said. “Though this painting was completed, I believe, about a year after the first one. Making it rather unique, since normally she painted her matching sets at around the same time. I would have liked to hang them together…”
“Where is this place?” I asked. “I don’t recognize it.”
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Gautier said, seeming taken aback by the question. “Somewhere on the island, I suppose.”
It wasn’t the view from East Beach, which faced an infinite sea. It was almost as if Suze had been looking back at Fall Island from another island, or a peninsula, or—
Or a boat. My skin prickled. Could she have done this out at sea? Maybe even on the same boat she’d been on the night she’d drowned? Apart from my dream, I’d never seen the island from Fall Island Bay, but I was pretty sure that the cliffs started at the cave Owen had taken me to, and rose higher towards the northern part of the island until they made a slight crescent around the bay.
I leaned forwards to peer even more intently at the painting. There was so much fine detail on the trees; it was hard to imagine keeping such a steady hand while you were rocking back and forth on a boat.
Mrs. Gautier smiled at me. “It’s such a pleasure to see so much interest in Miss White’s technique. I am glad she has someone like you now, Miss Lewis.”
I smiled back at her, but I felt ashamed. I wasn’t here to admire Suze’s brushwork. I was here because I wanted answers.
“I—I heard about what happened to Owen Larsen,” Mrs. Gautier said, tucking her hands inside her black sleeves and glancing out a mullioned window. “I have had my doubts about him, of course, but…a bomb.” She shuddered. “How dreadful.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was glad she didn’t think Owen deserved to be blown up, but… I shook my head.
“I should be going,” I said. “Thanks for showing me these.”
“Any time, dear,” Mrs. Gautier said. “Truly. And whenever you finish your portrait, I’d love to have it here, if you would.”
I said my goodbyes and left, frustrated and lonely. I hadn’t learned anything new about Scott. I hadn’t found any portraits that might tell me more about Suze—or who would have wanted to hurt her.
I wasn’t a detective. I wasn’t anything. At most, I was a painter, but now I’d seen all of Suze’s paintings, and they hadn’t revealed a thing.
Chapter 26
Instead of going home, I walked to Claire’s. I didn’t want to be alone.
The shop was in its late morning lull. Claire was loading up the pastry case with Fiona’s gooey cinnamon buns. She g
lanced up at the sound of the door jingling. “I was just thinking about you, Miranda,” she said, pulling out a cinnamon bun and handing it to me over the counter. “Coffee, too?” Before I could answer, she poured me a cup of hazelnut coffee and added cream and sugar.
I matched her point for point in our game and put exact change down on the counter before she could try to give it to me for free. She took it, smiling and shaking her head at my stubbornness. “I was thinking you should come over for dinner again tonight,” she told me. “Owen is so much happier when you’re around.”
“He asked me to move away with him,” I said.
Claire’s eyes widened. “My son wants to leave Fall Island? You’re joking. What did you say?”
“I said no.”
She patted my hand. “Good girl.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really! They caught that young man. Owen’s not in any danger here anymore. The main thing is that you shouldn’t rush things, after what you’ve been through.”
“Thanks, Claire.” It was a relief that she didn’t think I was a monster for refusing to go with him. It didn’t mean I loved him any less.
A moment passed while I plucked a piece of frosting off my cinnamon bun.
I took a deep breath. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot,” Claire said.
“Do you know if Suze has any more paintings on the island, besides the ones at the Graveside? Her parents gave a lot of them away, didn’t they?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. Just wondering.”
Claire frowned distractedly at the pastry case. “I have them.”
“You? Why?”
“Her parents, Abigail and Harry, were regulars at my shop. We were friends. They never believed any of that nonsense about Owen. So, when they decided to leave, they asked me to go through her paintings. To sort through them all, donate them to wherever would be the best fit, and so on.”
“What did you do with them?”
“Well, I gave some of them to the Artist’s Lodge. This was before Matthew’s time, but there was a nice young woman running it then who was very happy to have them. Most of them I gave to Ellie for the Graveside Gallery. And…I kept the rest. Is that terrible? I kept the ones that Suze wouldn’t have wanted displayed, the ones that were unfinished, that kind of thing. I thought she would’ve wanted Owen to keep those, but he said no, so I kept them myself.”
Set Me Free Page 20
