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The Morellis could all be paintings, a fact I find vaguely irritating. So much beauty in one family. It hurts to see it. I flatten it. Then flatten it again. Hang it on a wall.
“What the fuck was that?”
He must have seen my face. Perhaps being observant in this way is a family trait. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t met the rest of Daphne’s family, and I never will.
“It was nothing. You’re correct, of course. I can’t leave.”
“But you do. You left to stalk my sister. You broke into her apartment. You left things for her. And then you brought her here to make her a prisoner.”
“Visiting her apartment was a limited-time engagement. I had to be home at the end of the night.”
“Oh, so you’re fucking Cinderella then?” He smiles. Vicious. “That’s precious. What did you do to her?”
“You already have the list. I followed her. I brought her gifts. I went into her apartment and left a painting there for her. A piece by Lehmann that she hates.”
“Daphne doesn’t hate other people’s work.” His attention sharpens.
“She hated this one. She hated the artist and what he did to his wife. She hated the painting. So I bought the original, destroyed it, and left it there for her.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
Daphne didn’t tell him what the gift was. She didn’t even give him my name. That came later, courtesy of the agents. My little painter was protecting me all that time.
“You must know you’re not leaving.” Leo’s voice is even. Matter-of-fact. But I hear something else in it. Something more. “You don’t have to leave here ever again.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“A full accounting.” He rises from the chair and straightens his clothes. Leo is not wearing his overcoat. He’s given himself freedom of movement. “You’re going to tell me what happened, and then I’m going to kill you.”
Exhaustion comes over me like a wave. I neglect to catch it and surf somewhere else. I’m so fucking tired of this conversation. I’m tired of panic and release. I’m tired of being without Daphne.
“What do you want to know?”
“Exactly how you hurt her.”
“I didn’t. I gave her what she wanted.”
“And what was that?” He takes a step closer, jaw set. “To be taken captive? To be raped?”
Something flashes over his face when he asks the question. I couldn’t begin to name the emotion, but some part of my mind zeroes in. There, it says. That’s what this is about.
“No.” I’m flat about it. Stark. He’s watching me so closely that I feel a startled recognition. Daphne’s brother might be the only person on the planet, other than her, who sees. “I didn’t rape her.”
“But you touched her.”
“Of course I touched her. She wanted to be touched.”
“She keeps insisting that you didn’t force her.” This means something to him. He’s restraining himself, holding it tight in his voice and somewhere near the center of him. “I don’t think it’s true. I think you terrified her.”
“I did. She was afraid at the beginning, but she liked it.”
His teeth click together. “Daphne doesn’t like to be afraid.”
I’m missing a crucial piece of information. It’s been painted over. Obscured by layers and layers of paint. I don’t think it’s about my little painter, however. I think it’s about her brother. Her face at the charity gala comes back to me. Pale. Teary. Worried about him. Daphne wouldn’t give me any details, beyond some evasive mention of illness. He protected her from their father, but he couldn’t possibly be a threat any longer. Bryant Morelli’s sons are too powerful to allow anything else to happen to their younger sisters.
“It was the pleasurable kind of fear.” Why the fuck not admit it? I’m going to die anyway. “I didn’t force her. I didn’t brainwash her. She trusted me.”
“How long did she cry, Emerson?”
