Elle.
The day my brother took his life, I found her holding him. Tears decorated her face. She held his body so tightly it took my prying hands to get her to release him. The ambulance arrived soon after. I didn’t watch them load Hex’s body. I was busying holding my Grandma and Elle in my arms, keeping them close to me, just to make sure that they were okay, that I wouldn’t lose anymore.
The next morning the family’s lawyer handed over Hex’s will. For some reason, Hex had placed Reece in charge of executing all of his instructions. Perhaps he knew Grandma and I would be a wreck. Either way, Reece took control without any bitterness to my firing her earlier or all that had occurred between us. The first thing she did was place Dayanara in a mental facility. Next, Reece notified all of the artists’ families about their suicides. Like Elle guessed, every artist on the project, except for Elle, had killed themselves. Most died in the police station. One passed away in the security video room in the center of the castle.
Reece appointed a lawyer for Grandma. She anticipated Grandma having legal trouble once the collection was presented to the world. Although the videos didn’t show Grandma cutting the dead women’s vaginas, it did capture her admittance to me. And once news hit, Reece was right. Miami-Dade County pressed charges, as well as Elle’s ex-boyfriend, Michael, filing a complaint that she’d poisoned him. Grandma’s legal team was good. So far they’d settled with Michael and the first two victims’ families. But there would be more cases to come. I had no doubt about that, but I chose not to think of those things anymore.
Grandma didn’t see her imprisonment in her visions.
“State of Florida vs. Mrs. Needa Castillo. Idiotas!” Grandma laughed. “They forgot to put my gods in the case title. What is the state of Florida against my gods? Nothing.”
“I still want you to work with your lawyers,” I begged on the phone earlier tonight.
“Yes. Yes. I told them everything. The woman said something about religious freedoms or something. She thinks we’ll win. I know we will. I see things, you know.”
“I know, Grandma.”
“You know what I saw just this morning when I weeded my garden?”
“What?”
“I’m back in Cuba in this house I’ve never seen before. It’s next to a beach, but I can’t tell you which one. I’m sitting in a chair with a violet blanket on my legs and lilies on my lap. And guess who are sitting all around me, Al.”
“Who?”
“My great grandchildren. Lots of them. They’re listening to me and laughing, but I don’t know what I’m telling them. I strain my ears each time I see this vision, but still all I hear is their laughter.”
“Great grandchildren? “Dear God. She’s already started.
“There’s so many, Al. You wouldn’t believe it.”
I rubbed my eyes. “How much is many?”
“Five. Three boys and two girls. I don’t see their names, but I imagine the first girl’s name would be Needa.”
I rolled my eyes. “Is this what your gods say?”
“Don’t be so smart. This is what I say. Your first daughter is named Needa.”
“Of course.” I grinned. “I love you, Grandma.”
“I love you, too. And stop worrying about the case. My gods say I’ll be in Cuba with many great grandchildren. I don’t see bars.”
And so I stopped worrying.
I left all other decisions to Reece, especially when it came to that damn collection. In his will, Hex named it An Exodus in Sacrifice. A lot happened once the will and events of the suicides hit the public. The media claimed Hex and his project members were a cult. Religious factions raised the possibilities that the video could be depicting Satanism through cleverly placed symbolism. Others argued this was why the art community needed an official ethics committee that regulated artists. The art world responded in an uproar about the freedom of speech and expression. The city of Miami called for X-lab to not show the collection. People stood outside of the art gallery with banners and signs protesting the opening for this evening.
Meanwhile, X-lab was set to be packed for its second event. There was a six-month waiting list for tickets. When the tickets went up on our site for the Exodus, it was sold out in a matter of minutes. A move was in production for the whole affair. Several singers wrote songs about it. Even crazier, some white rapper emerged calling himself Hex the artist of death and wearing an odd striped wig in his videos. Everybody wanted to interview Elle, Grandma, and me. It seemed that people yearned to see death, whereas I for one had had enough. Which was why I lay on my yacht miles away from the opening. My days of management died with my brother. My enthusiasm in art withered away, too.