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“No.” They would tell me if they were coming. They know how important it is now. The hair on the back of my neck pulls up. It’s either a delivery I’m not anticipating, which never happens, or it’s my father. “Go upstairs, little painter. I’ll tell you when to come down.”
Daphne stands up, puts her blanket over her arm, and goes. I don’t want to scare her, but her face is pale. She recognized the rhythms of my house early on. My little painter knows this is not right.
I’ll make it right.
The knock comes again. More insistent this time. Like he’s trying to punch through the door with his bare hand.
Dread fills my gut and begins its work on my lungs, but I go to the door anyway. For a brief moment the sunlight from outside outlines the frame. You know, that dark voice says. You know. You know.
I pull the door open.
“Hello, Emerson.” My father stands on the porch wearing a different sweater underneath his tan coat. Same pants. My heart has become the surface of my skin. Listening for her is my highest priority. For any movement upstairs. If he sees her, we’re both fucked. “Are you going to invite me in?”
I should have expected this. Sin and Will have been making comments about him. He’s been escalating his efforts with both of them. He’s out of money, and he has three sons. It was only a matter of time.
If I don’t allow him in, he’ll assume I’m hiding something. He’ll dig in to that pressure point.
“Do you need more money? Sin said you’re scraping for pennies.”
“I don’t need more money.” He blinks at me, incredulous, and then he puts his hand on my shoulder and pushes past me. Ambles into the foyer. “Collected any new art lately, son?”
He knows.
He doesn’t, but my organs feel twisted. All knotted up. I close the door. “That’s how I make my living. I would think you’d be focused on making one for yourself.”
The huffed laugh is a sound out of my nightmares. “It’s touching that you’re worried for me.”
His movements are too slow. Too calculated. He’s leaning into doorways. Into my office. Thank God I told Daphne to go upstairs. My father sees something inside that interests him and goes through like it’s his goddamn house. I follow after him, letting my expression reflect impatience. Not the stark sense of impending doom. Never that.
“It smells good in here,” he comments.
“I keep a clean house.” His eyes glint. This is the worst kind of game now. Because the scent of Daphne’s shampoo hangs subtly in the air. “I can’t teach you computer literacy at the moment, unfortunately. You’ll have to come back another time.”
“I know how to use a fucking computer.” His face darkens, but he controls it quickly. “Is it pretty?”
“Is whatpretty?”
“What you’ve been collecting.”
“I only acquire valuable pieces. The beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as always.”
“Valuable,” he repeats, tasting the word. “How valuable? Is it worth what you paid?”
“Every piece I acquire is worthwhile for one reason or another.” I’m pretending with everything I have that I don’t give a fuck that he’s asking these questions. That I’m bored answering them. But I do give a fuck. Every sense is on high alert. Adrenaline sweeps through my veins, and I have conflicting needs. I have to listen for Daphne. I have to keep her safe. And I have to let my mind do its work to keep the intrusion of my father at a safe distance. I’m aware that his arrival here is a trigger for an attack. I won’t be able to hold it off indefinitely.
It can’t happen now. The purpose of protecting Daphne keeps panic in the background for the moment.
He moves past me, out of my office, and goes deeper into the house. He wanders past closed doors and picks his way through until he finds the living room.
One of Daphne’s mugs rests on the side table by the house. His eyes lock onto it. I feel him considering it in the context of the room. My father doesn’t see things like I do. No one does. But he is my father. I’m horrified to realize that the way he’s looking now is familiar. It’s the way I would take in a room in a painting. A still life is almost never a simple representation of the objects. Each one has some subtext. Some meaning.
There is only one mug on the table. I don’t leave glasses out. It could easily be mine.
My father turns around and looks me in the eye. He becomes the subject. The world around him darkens. Retreats. Out of frame, I can feel Daphne’s presence upstairs. So sweet. So precious. So mine.
“Where is she?”
Fuck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
