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I do.
And if I want it, it can’t be right. That understanding is a frame of its own. I can see it. Accept it.
Walk away from it.
I don’t realize what I’ve done until the images change.
I’ve left the gallery entirely. Moved to another one. All the questions of who should have the art I own and where Daphne should live her life are irrelevant. They’re distractions from the only two things that matter.
I love her.
She’s here with me.
All the rest is pointless. It’s for another man in a future time that has yet to be decided.
The gallery in my mind becomes the gallery in my house. The imagined one fades out, leaving only the real one behind. I put my hand on Daphne’s waist. She leans into it, hardly breathing.
My attention snaps into reality.
Uncertainty always begins with other people. It’s why the other side of a door is so dangerous. If anyone inhabits that empty room, you’re fucked.
The gallery is far from empty.
It’s brimming with information. It’s difficult to ignore the pieces on the walls, which are spilling facts about Daphne into the space around them. Every brush stroke tells me something about her. But those paintings aren’t dangerous.
Her brothers, on the other hand.
Carter watches Leo, tracking him with a certain tension to his body that makes me wonder what he’s doing aside from his studies at Oxford. It occurs to me that the dossier was surprisingly light on details about Carter, given his proximity in age to his older brothers. A quiet, simple life overseas wouldn’t fit with the rest. It stands out.
So does the way he stands.
I can’t imagine an academic is generally prepared for a fight to break out, but there are no signs that Carter is nervous, or out of his depth. Perhaps it’s a result of his upbringing. Perhaps it’s more. Impossible to say without asking.
Leo is battling himself.
For him, it doesn’t translate into a huge display of emotion or violence, except for the knife he’s thrown into Daphne’s painting. Now that the weapon is out of his hand, the struggle is embodied. Anger flashes across his eyes. There’s more underneath. Pain, maybe. Real hurt. Betrayal. Like blood through veins. It’s like the oceans Daphne paints.
He is not predictable.
The part of my brain that fears such unpredictability shuts down. It can’t calculate the possible futures, so it stops trying. Every moment becomes a hyper-realistic still life.
Is this the way Daphne sees me? Does she notice all the small things I’m trying to hide?
Probably.
Leo takes several deep breaths and turns away from the painting. Daphne asked me once what it felt like to panic. I would imagine whatever he’s experiencing is different from cold fear. Hot anger. Snarling teeth. It’s easy to see how she’s stayed so sheltered. Who would want to provoke the Beast of Bishop’s Landing, especially if it’s partially a front? He might be more like the version Daphne describes than a wild beast. That doesn’t make him less lethal. A man who can bring himself back from the edge of murder is far more dangerous than one who can’t.
It would have taken years of practice. His tension is entirely different from Carter’s. There’s an animal element to it. Something that begs to be controlled, and he’s done it before. This time is different. Daphne’s painting crossed some wire in his mind. That’s why she’s so still. I’m not the only one who doesn’t know what happens next.
Leo bristles. The canvases shudder in response. The oceans in them ripple against the frames. But then the water settles. It’s possible I’m hallucinating. It’s possible that the lack of sleep and constant panic have destroyed my brain. It’s possible that I’m having an attack right now and my brain has turned it into this.
We all survive one moment.
Then the next.
The next one.
Leo shoves his hand in the direction of the painting. “Later,” he says, as if he’s banishing a memory. Then his eyes meet mine. “I want a word with you. Alone.”
