Page 93 of Art of Sin
“Deirdre understands,” I mutter, my eyes sliding once again to the door.
Empty.
Finn’s voice lowers to a hum, “Does she know why?”
I nod, my throat thick. “I told her.”
Finn’s the only other person—besides my father and the assholes who helped him cover everything up—who knows that my mother didn’t die in a car accident but committed suicide. Not even my ex-wife knows the truth.
Finn’s brow furrows, his eyes filling with sympathy. I really want to punch him.
“I knew she was important to you, but I didn’t know—”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
In my periphery, I see the sharks circling, closer and closer—art collectors, private buyers, reporters, hungry young artists. Until now, they’ve been kept at bay by my surly expression, but it’s losing potency as the night wears on and bloodstreams dilute with alcohol.
Everyone’s on fire for the Seven Sins paintings. They’ve been ahhing and oohing since the doors opened. Men look at me like they want to kill me and take my skin. Women look at me like they want to ride me raw. Everyone, regardless of motivation, looks at me with hunger.
I could sell the series for an insane amount—a Dubai businessman already offered me a cool two million. Pretty sure I could get him to five.
But I’m about to cause a riot, because I’m not selling. They’re all I have left of her.
“Here they come,” murmurs Finn as a woman dripping in diamonds sashays toward us.
Fuck this.
Fuck them.
Fuck it all.
“Let’s bail.”
Finn’s eyes widen, then narrow. “Yeah?”
I nod, drawing into my lungs what feels like my first oxygen in days.
And the truth shall set you free…
“I’m only here for her, and she’s gone.”
“She’ll come back.”
The sharks are closing ranks, but I ignore them. They can’t touch me.
I’m relaxed.
I’ve accepted.
I understand.
“If someone does come back, it won’t be her. It won’t be Deirdre.”
I walk away before he can respond, toward the restrooms and the emergency exit. I don’t hear the praises and questions and demanding shouts of my name, don’t feel the touches of strangers and the avaricious gazes.
It won’t be her.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll wait, anyway.
* * *
