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“You’re not going to say anything,” he says.
About him. This little worm is terrified I’ll walk outside and start talking. He knows as well as I do that it would only take a phone call or two, and Peter Clay would disappear from the art world. A few people might remember his name, but most of them would follow my lead. He’d never sell another painting.
“It would be best if you never brought yourself to my attention again.”
Peter Clay has no further questions.
Chapter Twenty-One
Daphne
The text comesin just as I’m picking up my phone after Leo’s wedding.
Emerson: Come with me.
Daphne: I can’t! I’m not in the city!!
It’s a lie, of course. I am in the city. Leo wanted to get married in his own church, and so he did. I didn’t know he still went to church. Any church, much less this one in the city.
Eva knows. He told me.
And for the first time, I got to watch how a secret hides in plain sight.
He simply announced that he’s getting married at this church, on this date, and refused to say anything else about it. He let people assume what they wanted. What they assume is that Leo is a Morelli son who only got married in the church to please his parents. They don’t know that my father complained bitterly about the location up until he got out of the car this morning.
They don’t know anything, really.
Emerson’s reply comes right away.
Emerson: I know where you are, little painter.
Emerson: You’re in the basement of St. Thomas’s church as we speak. Come to the sacristy.
My entire body heats, then freezes. He knew I was lying. He knows I’m here.
He could be here, too. Is he?
I’ve thought of him every day since the charity gala. Every minute.
At first, I tried not to answer his texts. There was Christmas, and wedding planning, and as much painting as I could fit in. But I couldn’t help myself. I texted him back.
I tried not to think of his mouth on my pussy. I tried so hard. The most important thing was to keep the peace with my brother, and help Haley, and be there for Eva. No matter what I wanted. No matter what bad, dangerous things I wanted to do.
If he’s here—
I run up the stairs to the main floor of the church before I can think about it anymore. If he’s here—if he takes me—
I burst into the sacristy and my heart sinks.
He’s not here.
There is only a single, white orchid in the middle of the table. He was close. He was in this room while I stood up in Leo’s wedding. He might have been watching me. Goose bumps run up and down my arms. I lift the flower from the table to feel one of the petals.
This is as close as Emerson has come to me since the gala.
Unless he’s been closer, and I didn’t know.
Emerson’s obsession is palpable. In the delicate stem of the flower. In the close air of the sacristy. He came into this church while my entire family was inside. That act alone is dangerous. How did he do it, I wonder? Pretend to be a guest? Or was he a shadow who came through a door while no one was looking?
