Artful Lies (Hunt Legacy Duology 1)

‘Now, now, Donald.’ Mrs Potts moves across the room to Mr H with an agility of a much younger woman. ‘Let it be.’

‘It consumes him, Dorothy.’ His breathing is laboured from his overexertion. ‘He has to stop. Dear God, please make him stop.’

‘He’s wilful, Donald. A trait you can surely relate to.’

He huffs. ‘He’s a fool, just like I was. And his father. A daring son of a bitch with no regard for anyone but himself. He’ll waste his life, like we did. And there will be nothing left for him at the end of it, except regret. No sculpture. No satisfaction. Just regret.’ His head falls into his hands, his old body deflating.

Seeing the old man in such a state of helplessness and desperation does more than tug on my heartstrings. It cuts straight through them. I want to offer my comfort, yet I don’t feel it’s appropriate. This rivalry isn’t a battle of the biggest ego. It might have been once upon a time, but now it’s escalated into something more. Something fucking huge. Mr H once told me he’d do things differently if he had his time again. He means this. The family rivalry. Of course, my mind is rampant with unrelenting curiosity, but it would be silly and selfish of me to dream of prying into such a delicate, painful matter.

I slip silently out of the kitchen, leaving Mrs Potts to console Becker’s grandad. I’ll stay with Lucy. Mark will just have to put up with me. I’d rather be the cause of another night of no action for Lucy than be here where everyone’s emotions are so volatile. I should have kept my mouth shut, but in the same breath, Becker expected that showdown. He’s put me in the middle, knowing what I would face, what I would see, what I would find out.

I blow out air, my brain burning further as I head for the courtyard, making a conscious effort not to be distracted by the stone staircase when I pass it. I do well, keeping my focus forward.

Until I hear him.

‘Where are you going?’

I slow to a halt and glance up the stairs into the blackness. I can’t see him; he’s hiding in the shadows. ‘I didn’t mean to cause such a row,’ I say quietly. ‘You should have told me.’

‘He’ll get over it. Always does.’

His detachment rattles me. How can he be so selfish? ‘Well, he’s not in good shape. You should tend to him.’ I continue on my way, but come to a stop when a question pops into my mind that I’m surprised I haven’t thought to ask before. ‘If you have the map, how come you haven’t found the sculpture? You said you know where it is.’

I hear movement on the stone steps behind me, followed by a deep breath. ‘I’m missing a piece.’

I swallow hard. The rips. The hole in the old map. He needs that missing piece. He’s looking for that, too? God, it goes on. He doesn’t know where the sculpture is at all. He needs to find the missing piece of map before he can find the sculpture. My mind spirals.

‘Eleanor?’

I don’t turn around. What would be the point? I can’t see him, and speaking to darkness is something I’m sick of. I feel like I’ve been doing it from the moment I met him. ‘What, Becker?’

‘Don’t go.’ The quiet demand is whispered in my ear, and I flinch, turning around to find he’s silently crept up on me. He’s expressionless. But the sadness and frustration behind his hazel eyes is obvious. ‘Please.’

That follow-up plea slices me in two, his vulnerability weakening me. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here,’ I admit, dropping my eyes.

‘You’re here to help me understand.’

My head whips up, annoyed. If there’s anyone who needs to understand shit around here, it’s me. I’ve had a tidal wave of revelations poured all over me. ‘Understand what? Us?’

‘Yes.’ He steps into me and nuzzles my cheek, the bristle coating his jaw comforting. I could cry for him. I could cry for me, too. My morals and conscience are demanding I run. Yet my heart is refusing to let me give up on him. This crazy revelation hasn’t made a scrap of difference to how I feel about Becker. If anything, it’s made me realise how passionate and lost he really is. How determined. And how fragile. This has given a whole different perspective on his therapy. Women are a side effect. Something to distract him when he allows them to. Because in every other facet of his life, he’s on a hunt. An unrelenting, solitary quest. For that sculpture, but also for retribution. For peace. To find what his father and his grandfather couldn’t.

A small part of me wants to leave because I know it’s the right thing to do. To ease my conscience. But I can’t win. By easing my conscience, I’ll be breaking my heart. I need to figure out which one I can live with.