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I look up at him. Even my eyes are trembling, making my vision judder and Becker appear blurry. ‘Where is the ruby?’ I ask.
His face is still impassive, his eyes clear behind his glasses. I get nothing – no words or evidence of his mood. He takes a step forward, and then relaxes in his standing pose, watching me, obviously endeavouring to ascertain my frame of mind, his eyes never faltering as he pulls a hand from his pocket and reaches towards me.
At first, I’m slightly baffled by his actions, wondering what he’s doing. But then my eyes fall to his hand and his palm opens up.
And I’m blinded by shards of bright red light.
‘Oh my God,’ I whisper, my palm coming up slowly and covering my mouth. The Heart of Hell stares up at me, and my fucked-up, corrupt world stops spinning.
Just like it did when it was held protected by the glass cabinet, it holds me under a spell, and my mind blanks. The spell is strong, would probably give the one Becker has me under a run for its money. Now the gem is raw, though. There’s nothing keeping it contained, no glass protecting it. Or protecting me. There’s only air between us – me and that priceless stolen ruby. The power of its visual appeal is beyond description. The power of its presence is heart-stopping. It shares many of those qualities with Becker. It’s the precious stone equivalent to my Saint Sinner.
‘How?’ I murmur, ripping my eyes away from it to find him.
He clenches his teeth, keeping the gem held out to me. ‘Abra-fucking-cadabra, princess.’
An unexpected tear trickles down my cheek, catching me off guard, and I rush to wipe it away, annoyed for allowing my emotions to get the better of me. I’m crying. I don’t know why I’m crying. My mind is a big fat muddle of I-don’t-know-whats. I stand before the love of my life, a stolen priceless gem resting neatly in his palm, and stare. I just stare at it, my ability to do anything else abandoning me. He’s a thief, too? Is this one revelation too far?
‘Brent didn’t steal the O’Keeffe, did he?’ I ask, facing him.
He shakes his head.
I need to breathe. I need air. Forcing my sensibility to take over, I make to escape, needing space to process it all.
‘Eleanor,’ Becker calls, reaching to grab my arm.
I dodge his hand and skirt past him, making a beeline for the door. I can’t let him touch me. ‘Just leave me.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To think.’ I’m honest. I need to think really really hard.
‘Wait.’ He catches me as I reach the door, holding my hand on the handle. The inevitable happens. My body answers to him, lighting up, but my mind is fervently telling me to control it. To be sensible. To be wise and smart and vigilant. Just one of those things will do!
‘I need you to give me some space.’ I spell it out, forcing stability into my tone when all I want to do is crumble to the floor. I can’t show my weakness. The lights going out at Countryscape was part of his plan. But Brent trying to abduct me wasn’t.
This is why I’m better off alone.
‘I’m in love with you, Eleanor,’ he vows tightly, reluctantly releasing my hand. He says nothing more, because he doesn’t need to. Those words aren’t that complicated. They’re simple, albeit smothered by complexity.
‘I know you do,’ I say quietly. ‘But you can’t seem to stop yourself from hiding your wicked truths from me.’ I breathe strength into my dying legs and open the door, walking away from him. I follow my feet down the corridor, up the stone steps, until I find myself in his room, overlooking the Grand Hall.
And there I stand forever, staring down at the impressive space, being reminded of so many things. It’s all flooding into my mind – the first time I was here, the time I scaled the furniture, where Becker proposed, the endless times I’ve weaved through the treasure. I stare at the giant emerald decorating my finger. It doesn’t seem so big now. Then the revelations charge forward. Becker the deceiver. Becker the liar. Becker the conman. Becker the intruder. Becker the forger. Becker the thief. It’s all so very far-fetched. But it’s all so very true. I feel like I’ve been served the biggest dose of reality, and all I have to do is swallow it. Accept it. Becker the thief is just one more sinful thing to add to his list of sinful things. My sinful Saint Becker. The man I can’t help but love.
Reaching up to my head, I rest the pads of my fingers on my forehead, perplexed by the fading ache. I’m suddenly calm. I’m suddenly thinking straight. I have no rose-tinted glasses on, and I’m not naïve. I’m sound-minded and resolute, and I’m asking myself the question Becker asked me one time – the time I discovered his secret room and the fact that he was quite a nifty sculptor.
