Recluse (Wolfes of Manhattan 2)

The speck of white for…

Fuck.

A priest’s collar.

That was the speck of white.

The fucking speck of white.

“Father Jim,” I said.

“Who’s Father Jim?”

“Our parish priest. He and my father were…” What had they been? Certainly not friends, but my father had given exorbitant amounts of money to Father Jim’s ministry.

“They were what?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Why did you say his name?”

“I was thinking about one of my paintings. It hangs in the lobby of our building. I’ve gotten offers in the seven figures for it, but I never sold it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t need the money.”

“Have you sold other paintings?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“So why not this one?”

“It’s too…”

Too what? Too personal? All my work was personal. Any artist who created something impersonal wouldn’t be in business for long. Individuals had to feel something when they looked at art. If it wasn’t personal to me, how could it be personal to them?

“Yes?”

“I’m not sure. I just can’t sell it.”

She scribbled more notes.

“Why don’t you describe this painting to me.”

“You can see it in the lobby of the Wolfe building.”

“I can probably see it on your phone.”

“Oh, yeah. Of course.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and pulled up a photo of the painting in question.

“No,” she said, “that’s not what I mean. I’d love to see it, but that’s not what I’m after right now. I want you to describe it to me.”

“Why?”

“Because it has meaning to you.”

“All my work has meaning to me.”

“Yes, but this one you’ve kept, despite offers of purchase. I want to hear you describe it in your own words.”

I handed her my phone. “You want to look at it while I describe it?”

“Sure.” She took the phone from me. “It’s lovely. How big is it?”

“It’s a large piece. Five by six feet.”

She nodded. “All right. Describe it to me.”

“The base is crimson, a bright red.”

“Yes, I see. Why? What were you feeling when you painted the piece?”

“It’s an older piece. I’ll have to remember.”

“All right. Do you want to try some guided relaxation? That might help.”

My nerves sizzled along my arms. Guided relaxation. That was why I’d come, after all. Still, the thought unnerved me.

“We can continue with talking if you’d prefer,” Dr. Woolcott said.

I shook my head, determined to be strong. To do what I’d come to do. “No. Let’s do it.”

“All right, Mr. Wolfe. Close your eyes.”43CharlieApparently I put my career over my social life. That was what the Cosmo quiz indicated, anyway. No surprise there, except now I was in love with one of the owners of the business where I was employed. Still, I hadn’t missed any work my first week.

Man, had it really only been a week?

It felt like a year. Not in a bad way, but so much had occurred. Now, here I was, waiting outside while one of the Wolfe heirs was in therapy.

Surreal.

Yeah, I was a little tense. My skin felt tight around my arms, and I kept rubbing at them furiously, trying to ease the shrink-wrapped feeling.

Wasn’t helping.

Roy had been in with the therapist for a half hour already. I considered that a success. Half of me had expected to see him again after five minutes alone with her.

I truly hoped she could help him find whatever he was hiding so deeply within himself. Even if it didn’t help us with the Derek Wolfe case, at least it would help Roy.

Roy was my priority above all else, even my job at this point. Though my job was pretty close. I mean, Cosmo couldn’t be wrong.

I scoffed lightly at my own sarcasm as I leafed through the rest of the magazine, seeking something of substance. Nope. Not interested in creating the perfect smoky eye. Not interested in the sexual exploits of people who told their experiences to a magazine. Did people really have this much sex?

Boy, was I out of touch with reality.

Best birth control? Still not interested. The pill worked fine for me.

I finally closed the magazine and threw it back on the end table next to my chair.

Loudly, apparently, because the pretty receptionist looked up. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

But I wasn’t fine. I was…something. Not worried, exactly. Roy was in there with a doctor who came highly recommended. Concerned. Yeah, I was concerned.

Roy was stronger than even he knew. All the Wolfes were, having grown up with Derek Wolfe as a father. Lacey had confided in me a little while we were working on the deceased Wolfe’s will. The man was ice cold. A master manipulator. A shrewd businessman with questionable ethics.

No surprise he ended up on ice.

But who had killed him? I felt certain none of his children were involved, and I knew Lacey wasn’t. Yet someone out there had implicated all of them.

No arrests had been made. The Wolfe kids were simply persons of interest. Of course their fingerprints would be in his penthouse. They were his kids. They probably visited him from time to time.