I pick up my phone. Photographed faces beam out at me from the screen. Jada and me. The two of us are together, smiling, our arms around each other. Mom, with her smothering love written all over her face. Zander, with his “old guy trying to look young” eyebrow ring. And no one else. Zander’s the key. I wasn’t sure I’d actually go through with it, but now I know that I will.
Lie Number Six: Zander is an evil man. He’s doing something terrible to me.
Truth: Zander is the good guy everyone thinks he is. But they don’t need to know that.
Curling up into a ball, I hug my legs and put my forehead down on my knees. I’m sorry, Zan. But it can’t hurt you. You’ll never even know.
Sylvie and émile won’t let me stay with them simply because I “don’t get along well” with my Mom. Nicole had nowhere to go, but I do. I have a home to return to. But they might let me stay if, well, there’s something going on between me and my Mom’s boyfriend. Something very, very bad.
Sylvie and émile are the perfect new family for me. They lost a child and have room in their lives for someone new. They take in strays, like Nicole, so it’s not like they haven’t done something like this before. But there’s one more thing that makes this work so well. Sylvie used to lead a support group for girls, all victims of abuse. She was molested as a child. She writes about this in her blog, sharing her story with the hope that she can help others.
Sylvie will let me stay if she thinks I’m afraid of Zander.
Bring it, Rosemary. I take a deep breath. First, I’ll throw Mom off my trail and do what she asks so my plan has time to work.
She wants a painting. Proof that this “art camp” thing was worth it. So, I’ll send my mother a painting from “Arizona,” and not just any painting. I need something fantastic, something that will convince her that I’m a real artist. I don’t need her to become any more suspicious than she already is.
All is quiet next door. I creep inside, hardly daring to breathe. I find a small still life that reminds me of the dressing table in Marguerite’s bedroom. There are irises in a glass vase and a jumble of containers and bottles on a table. All the objects are reflected in a mirror behind them. It was painted with lots of blues and purples and makes me think of twilight and cool air on skin. There’s no artist’s signature on the painting. Now it’s mine.
A Rosemary original.
If they even miss it, my upstairs neighbors might suspect that I took it, but they’ll have no proof.
Besides, I’m only taking one painting, from hundreds. Who’s going to miss it?
Sixteen
“Here you are,” émile says as I enter the shop, yawning after my long night. Minutes ago, I successfully mailed a package to Benita, aka the “Art Camp Director,” in Arizona. Helpful that Zander has a cousin who lives in Sedona. From her, the painting will get to Mom.
It was great that the guy behind the glass who helped me at the post office didn’t even look at me. He just took the package, weighed it, and told me how much.
It’s such a relief when I don’t have to talk to anyone.
émile smiles at me. “One of our neighbors asked me for help, and I told her you would be happy to do it,” he says, gesturing toward the stairs. “Let’s go.”
Blinking as my eyes adjust to the dim light inside, I follow, smiling to myself, humming something tuneless, wordless, nothing more than happy notes that slide freely from my mouth. We climb, I hum. émile leads me to the floor above ours. He knocks on the very first door and opens it without waiting for a response. I stop humming. It’s the old lady’s apartment.
What if Thomas is there?
Inside, the drapes are closed. A thick blackness hides everything from my eyes. Night time in Sylvie’s apartment is somehow different. It’s shades lighter than the suffocating daytime shadows that surround me here. Sylvie and émile’s home holds a feather-light darkness, waiting to be brushed aside. Mrs. Thackeray’s place feels like it’s full of secrets.
Someone coughs, and I hear movement. A single table lamp clicks on and I finally spy the crumpled up form of Mrs. Thackeray on the sofa. What was she doing, sitting there in the dark? Did she think that was some kind of dramatic entrance?
She points around the room. The dim yellow glow reveals a place almost as cluttered as the so-called empty apartment downstairs. Piles of books, boxes, clothing, and other objects crowd every available surface and spill out onto the floor.
“I am so grateful, dear émile,” Mrs. Thackeray says. Her voice surprises me. It’s full of sweetness. “You can see how many things a silly old woman can accumulate during a lifetime. But, of course,” she adds with a wheezy, rattling chuckle, “one must not hold on to the past forever. It’s very kind of these young people to help.”
Before I can wonder what she means by “these young people,” émile speaks.
“Ah, here he is. When he stopped by this morning I asked him to join us. Merci, Gavin.”
Gavin walks in with his hands shoved into his pockets and his head down low. His face is wary, his eyes watchful. “Hey, Rosemary,” he says.
I don’t answer. Awkwardness ensues, as it always does when I’m around.