And yet, much like its creator, in a way, it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. It drew me in, called me forward.
I must’ve been standing there in silent awe for far too long, because Bram picked up the sheet off the floor and started to cover the painting.
I rushed to the easel. “What are you doing?”
“You obviously hate it.” He kept his back to me, still attempting to cover the painting.
“No, I-I…” I wanted to say I loved it, but that would’ve rung false.Lovewouldn’t have been the right word. How can you love something so ghastly? How can you love something that makes you feel like your very bones and innards are quaking in revulsion? And yet, the way I felt was far stronger thanadmirationorlike. Maybe because it made mefeelso strongly to begin with. It was as if the incarnation of death had made me feel more alive than I ever had.
Even now, recalling the details of that encounter, I can’t come up with a word that describes how I felt about the painting.
“Hey,” I said, reaching up for his shoulder and attempting to turn him around. “Hey, look at me.”
He consented, his tall sturdy frame almost malleable beneath my fingers. Yet he refused to meet my eyes.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, but you’re misunderstanding. I think it’s amazing.”
“You’re just saying that because I got upset.”
“No.No, I’m not.” I tilted my head in front of his, trying to catch his gaze. My hands were up on both of his shoulders, and as he let his guard down, I let my hands slide down to his wrists.
And though I’ve hashed this scene out in my head often over the last year and a half, I think that was likely where I really went wrong.
***
Now, not wanting to repeat past mistakes, I scoot ever so slightly away from Bram under the guise of needing to cross my legs andget comfortable. “You’re not worried about Henry?” I ask, because Henry seems like a safe conversation topic.
“I am not.” Bram takes a sip of coffee. “Now, tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Is this Irish coffee?” I ask, taking a tentative sip.
“Come on, Phil. Talk to me. I know Henry had you acting as private investigator, and I’d like to be in the loop.”
“I don’t have anything just yet,” I answer truthfully. “But I’m looking into how Mariana’s death might be related to Kennedy’s.”
Bram’s head pulls back. “As in the same person killed both girls?”
“Not exactly.”
He leans forward, placing a hand so near my leg on the couch, it might as well be touching me. He looks me dead in the eyes. Whatever gift I thought I had for reading Henry’s mind—Bram has it with me. He is seeing my thoughts in real time—about Adam, about Henry, abouthim.
All of my past mistakes come tumbling forward, like he’s siphoning them out of me.
BramLast October
“Souls and memories can do strange things during trance.”
—Draculaby Bram Stoker
“Mariana?” Bram called again when he found the downstairs bathroom unoccupied.
It was very strange, the way she’d left her belongings there in the living room. And that she hadn’t told him where she’d gone. Though maybe she was being considerate; he had been rather immersed in his novel.
Bram headed toward the back door to see if maybe she’d gone for a walk around the gardens when his phone buzzed in his back pocket again. And again, it wasn’t Mariana.
It washer. The guilt returned in a wave, washing over him like sticky salt water. Leaving that filthy feeling behind. At least now he could reply without Mariana there in the room with him.
This has to end
