by J. J. Sorel
My poor mother. I hated having to put her in the middle of our battle. “There’s another way,” I said.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“The will Justin cooked up.”
“You believe Justin forged your father’s will?”
I cocked my head. “What do you think? I’m sure Mom’s told you about the original will she found. The one that Dad, with his last breath, spoke about.”
He nodded solemnly. “Something doesn’t smell right for sure. He’s getting around in that flashy red BMW, and he’s just splashed out on some swanky penthouse on Park Avenue.”
My knuckles had gone white thinking about how much Justin had fucked me over.
“I’ve got another matter to deal with that’s pretty out there in the priority department. But I’m determined to get my hands on that last will.”
“You mean to contest it, then?” he asked.
“What would you do, James?” I raised a brow.
He sipped his beer pensively, and then looked up at me and nodded slowly. “Yeah. Sure. I’d be walking into that attorney’s office and demanding the details. Your mother has the right to do that.”
I let out a deep breath. How I dreamed of being on a beach somewhere with Ava dressed in a skimpy bikini, away from all the crap.
Rising, I patted him on the shoulder. “Hopefully next time we can talk about the project. But thanks for the update. I’m glad you’re on my side.”
“I always have been, Bronson. Elliot thought the world of you.”
I swallowed a tangled lump of emotion at the mention of that great man that had been my father. Who said one needed to be related by blood to love a parent?
Ava looked pretty in a flouncy blue blouse that echoed the light in her eyes. I loved that she was feminine and subdued and didn’t flaunt her perfect curves to the world. A tingling sensation surged through my veins, making my strides quicker as I approached her.
“Hey, pretty girl,” I said, kissing her rosy cheek.
Her smile slipped and a cloud crossed her face. “Are we really going to do this?”
I took her hand. “I’ve got you.”
“I know you have, Bronson. It just feels so sneaky.”
“I have to know, Ava.” We stood in the middle of Fifth Avenue. A busy afternoon crowd moved around us. Their lives seemed so normal, while ours was anything but. “For us,” I added.
Ava remained frozen on the spot, devouring me with a questioning gaze. “What do you mean?” she asked finally.
I took a deep breath and bit my lip. Articulation having never been my strong point, hijacked by emotion, I became speechless.
“Do you think that I am part of some conspiracy to bring you here?” Ava asked, resentment coating her words.
“No. But this is fucking strange. The coincidence is too weird. It’s almost freaking supernatural.”
She sighed with resignation. “There’s a fine line between coincidence and the supernatural, you know.”
Ava’s matter-of-fact tone did little to quell my unease. If anything, it only stirred things up. “So you think that Aggie’s a ghost?” I asked. When she didn’t respond, I protested, “But that’s fucking preposterous.”
The crowds were so distant that it seemed as though a plate of glass separated us, like some kind of warped parallel universe, despite our shoulders nearly rubbing with those rushing by.
I took hold of both her hands. “All I know is that I love you, Ava. If you have come to me through some ghostly process or whether it is just plain outright coincidence, it doesn’t matter. You’re a part of me.” I touched my heart.
Her eyes softened, and then we fell into each other’s arms and forgot about everything else.
My mouth ate at her fleshy lips with feverish need.
Ava pulled away and looked at me, her eyes sultry and aroused. But then she blinked, and an earnest frown washed over her again. “I’m worried about Aggie. I should call a doctor. That’s knotting me up the most, to be honest. But she won’t let me.”
“Come on, let’s go and visit Aggie.”
Ava studied me again.
“What’s that look?” I asked.
“Just you calling her that. It sounded familiar on your lips.”
“Ha?” My brow scrunched. “The only thing familiar to my lips…” I touched her mouth and pointed down to her groin.”
She giggled. “You’ve got a one-track mind, Bronson.”
“I haven’t heard any complaints,” I replied dryly. “And in any case, it’s a two-track mind.”
“And the other?” she asked.
“Finding out who I really am.”
“Is that an existential or ancestral quest?”
“Both, Ava.” I drew her close to me.
The marble floor in the lobby had a mosaic that I hadn’t noticed before, mainly due to the rush of emotions last time I’d visited that attractive building.
Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I took a photo.
“It’s gorgeous. I’ve been admiring it from the first day I arrived,” said Ava, watching me.
I nodded. “I have this thing for mosaics. In another lifetime, maybe.”
She smiled at me again.
“What?”
“You’re so cute when you drop that intensity.”
“Okay. I’ll bear that in mind and look for more mosaic floors.”
She hit me gently on the arm and giggled.
That was just what we needed to remove the edge of what was about to come because something told me we wouldn’t be doing much laughing up there.
Ava pulled a face when we discovered the elevator empty again, disappointed that the character she’d met was nowhere to be found.
We stepped in and rode up to the tenth floor, and I stroked the walnut walls.
“Is that all you can think of?” asked Ava.
I grinned at her glower. Even pulling faces, she was beautiful. “Apart from your body, I’m kind of obsessed with stroking wood for some reason.”
Ava took my hand and smiled.
When the elevator arrived at the top floor, we stepped out into the hallway and walked over to Aggie’s door.
Watching Ava knock on the door, I asked, “Don’t you have a key?”
“I have, but I like to alert Aggie that I’m arriving.”
After what seemed a long time to wait, I became impatient to enter, so I cocked my head toward the key, and Ava opened the door.
Like the first time I’d visited, the room was clean and pristine, in that unlived in way.
“Aggie must be upstairs,” whispered Ava.
When we got to the top, I had to pause at the painting of Ava’s look alike. This time I inspected it closely. The frame seemed recent. The wood had that fresh look about it.
“Why are you smelling that?” she asked.
“Because it’s only recently been framed. I know fresh wood when I see it.” I ran my finger over the oil painting. That too had a bright sheen to it. It didn’t seem worn with time as a fifty-year-old painting would be. My suspicion was confirmed by the painting hanging at its side, which looked dull in comparison.
“Do you think…” Ava was interrupted by a voice in the distance.
“Who’s there?”
Ava headed straight to the door of Aggie’s bedroom.
“Is that you, Ava?”
“Yes, Aggie.” She approached the bed while I hid at the entrance.
“I’m glad you’re here. Come sit.”
Ava picked up a chair and lowered herself onto it.
“I saw Monty the other day. He had the cameo. I think he did steal it after all. I’m sure Mother will understand. He’s made good. Moved up in the world and beautiful. So handsome.”
I stepped back into the hallway, even though I was dying to charge in and ask questions. It was obvious that Aggie was either out of it or a better actress than Meryl Streep.
“Aggie, I’m worried about you. Are you eating? Can I get you som
ething? I really wish you’d let me call a doctor to see you. I worry about you when I’m not here.”
“No doctor,” Aggie snapped. “But a martini would be nice. Anyway, Louisa’s been here. She made me eat this mushy horrid stuff. Don’t worry about me. I have a button somewhere that I can press.”
Ava looked around and found a beeper hanging by the side of the bed, placing it close to Aggie.
“I’m not in any pain. Now go and get me that martini.”
“But is that wise?”
When Aggie sighed dramatically, Ava rose.
I followed her downstairs.
We entered a kitchen that looked as if a meal had never been cooked in it.
“How am I going to get into that closet?” I asked.
“I don’t know. We’re going to have to improvise. Aggie’s in and out of delirium. She seems to think you were an apparition, but just now, she was lucid.”
We returned to the living room, where I watched Ava concoct a martini like a professional bartender.
She looked up at me with a nervous smile while shaking the silver receptacle. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“At least I know where to go if I ever get a taste for those.”
“One of my many skills,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“I look forward to discovering more. I’ve already stumbled upon a few,” I said, pinching her ass.
She jumped back. “Not here.”
“Why not?” I asked. “From what you tell me about Aggie, she wouldn’t mind.”
Ava smiled and continued to pour out two martinis.
“Are you making her two?” I asked.
“No, one’s for me. Aggie always insists I join her. Do you want one?”
I rubbed my neck. “I could use a bourbon.” My eyes went straight to a bottle of Bulleit. “She’s got good taste in liquor.”
I poured half a glass and drank it as if it were water.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
AVA
The martini was just what I needed to take the edge off my nerves. Taking little sips, I sat by Aggie’s bedside, hoping she’d soon drop off, while Bronson waited in the hallway.
Noticing Aggie’s eyelids lowering, given she’d just drained half of her martini, I pounced on the opportunity to get to that key I’d spied earlier in the drawer.
My heart pounded against my rib cage. With one eye on Aggie and the other on the drawer handle, I pulled on it slowly.
The key stared back at me, and just as I clasped it, Aggie stirred.
“What are you scouting around for?” she asked.
“Just looking for a hanky,” I said, grabbing a white fabric square with lace corners.
“There are plenty in there. Help yourself,” she said.
After managing to grab the key, I removed a hanky and wiped my nose.
Painful seconds ticked away.
Then Aggie asked me to read to her, so I headed downstairs to grab a copy of Wuthering Heights, passing Bronson the key along the way.
He followed me downstairs again and headed straight to the bourbon, taking a swig out of the bottle.
The sinews in his forearms swelled as he lifted the bottle. His dark eyes brushed over my face, easing into a tender smile as he wiped his lips.
I responded with a tense smile. Even with all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, my body, with a mind of its own, melted over Bronson. That moment of arousal was short-lived, though, because as I peered up at the stairs, fear gripped me again.
A touch of guilt streaked my spirit. Sneaking around left a bad taste in my mouth. But the force of nature that was my lover, coupled with my own thirst for knowledge, had taken control.
When I returned with book in hand, Aggie was fast asleep.
I tiptoed out and gestured to Bronson with a hasty nod.
With Bronson by my side, my fingers quivered as I unlocked the closet door. Forgetting to breathe, I quietly opened the door, whose squeaky hinges were in desperate need of oiling, which didn’t help my jumpy nerves.
Upon opening the door, we discovered not a closet but a small room.
Bronson cocked his head for me to remain on watch.
When I heard Aggie snoring, I allowed curiosity to get the better of me and followed Bronson in.
Bronson stared at something that had stopped him in his tracks.
Adrenaline charged through my veins. This was not the time to linger, I thought.
I tapped his shoulder gently as a gesture for him to do something, but then my eyes landed on the object that had captured his attention.
Time stretched into a gaping hole.
My jaw fell open, and a silent gasp scraped at the back of my throat. The need to maintain silence made it even more painful, for what I really wanted to do was scream.
Instead, I placed my hand in front of my mouth as my eyeballs stretched out of their sockets.
To my horror, floating in a jar filled with liquid, was a pink fleshy object. The ridiculous notion that it might be an alien, or something else that shockingly unreal, formed in my brain, because to my imagination’s defense, it did look like some kind of disfigured embryonic form. In many ways, I wished it had been. Because an otherworldly explanation for that ghastly floating thing would have almost seemed easier to swallow.
Although this discovery had made my veins turn to ice, I had to understand what the hell that thing was.
Meanwhile, Bronson lifted the jar and turned it around to study it closely. The pink, fleshy thing seemed to pulsate.
A gasp left my lips. Was it alive? I wondered.
He turned to look at me with a stupefied frown that I was certain mirrored the one carved on my face. “What the fuck?” his lips mimed.
Harnessing as much inner strength as I could muster, I forced myself to study it a little closer, only to discover that the bulbous pink object had what looked like a large scar.
I murmured, “Fuck!” It finally dawned on me that the thing in the jar was a heart.
My lunch made its way to my throat and I had to turn away from the ghastly sight.
“Is that what I think it is?” I whispered.
Bronson nodded, and a grim expression shadowed his face.
After studying it a little further, he placed it back on the shelf.
Next to the gruesome jar stood a photo in a gold frame housing an image of a blond woman who looked like a younger Aggie and a man who looked exactly like Bronson. Although he wore gray, high-waisted, loose slacks and was not as buff, the face was Bronson’s.
The resemblance made my knees weaken.
That was Monty with Aggie. And more significantly, she didn’t look like me. Although I should have been relieved by that knowledge, it only fueled more questions.
Who was the woman in the painting, then?
Even though it had been a matter of minutes, it felt as if we’d been in there for hours. Aggie’s heavy breathing in the background allowed me time for a few steadying breaths of my own.
Gripping the photo, Bronson leaned against the wall, his eyes glued to the image. He seemed lost in a world as distant in time as our ability to make sense of it.
Aggie groaned and then started to mumble. Our heads turned sharply toward her bed.
Closing the door to hide the light, Bronson signaled for me to go and check on her.
After I was satisfied that she was fast asleep, I returned to find Bronson peering into a shoebox that contained photos and other odds and ends.
All the while, I had to stop myself from looking at the corner where that ghastly jar with that heart stood. Morbid and terrifying as it was, I bore witness to a woman’s obsession, as I could do little but conjecture that the scarred organ had belonged to Monty.
How it had gotten there bothered me the most.
Sweat shone on Bronson’s brow and his hands trembled as he rummaged through the box.
There was so much in there that he tucked the box under his arm.
“You can’t take it,�
�� I whispered. “Aggie may look for it.”
Bronson looked as if he’d been to the other side. He took a deep breath and nodded.
He settled on a few photos, all of Monty. Bronson placed one in his pocket and continued to look through the contents of that box.
An envelope addressed to Aggie Johnson, with “personal and private” stamped on it, fell into his hand. He took that and tucked it into his pocket too. There was nothing else in there of interest, although I noticed Bronson revisit some of the photos of Monty. The one that he’d tucked into his pocket was an image of the dead man’s face.
The face that Bronson shared.
I went on before him to check that the coast was clear. As Aggie’s snores filled the air, I gestured for him to follow.
When we got to the landing, I noticed he had the jar in his hand.
“You’ve brought that with you?” I asked. I couldn’t stand the idea of being anywhere near it.
He pointed for me to descend the stairs.
Once we were in the living room, out of Aggie’s earshot, Bronson put the jar down and studied it again.
He ran his fingers through his mess of hair. “That’s a freaking human heart.”
Unwilling to look at it for any longer, I said, “Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure. And what’s more… Look at the scar,” he said, pointing at the jar.
Unlike me, Bronson didn’t seem the least bit squeamish.
Taking a quick peek, I had to swallow back a deluge of revulsion, as though it was a big fat hairy spider in there.
“That’s a stab wound. That’s how he must have died. Stabbed in the heart.”
Flinching at the graphic description, I asked, “What are you going to do with it?”
Having gone pale, Bronson set it down. “I don’t know. But one thing’s for certain: here are the remains of a murdered person.”
“Do we call the cops?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Bronson wiped the jar with his T-shirt.
“I think you should return it to where it was while we think this through properly.”
He ran his tongue over his lips and held my gaze for a moment. I could almost see his mind ticking away. “That’s probably the sensible thing to do.”
After sneaking the jar back to where we’d found it, we sprinted down the stairs.
