Angry God (All Saints High 3)

Vaughn Spencer, as an example.

While Poppy refused to believe the mounting evidence against our uncle and insisted on attending his small, intimate funeral, my father seemed furious and disgusted with his cousin. He refused to speak of him. We both opted out of any and all tributes and memorial arrangements for Fairhurst.

Father wasn’t stupid. He must’ve connected the dots leading to Vaughn’s disappearance. All the same, he never questioned Harry’s so-called suicide.

But I knew.

I knew Harry Fairhurst hadn’t committed suicide.

To put an end to your life, you must first feel acute regret, guilt, or unhappiness. I’d grown up next to my uncle. Not once did he look uncomfortable in his snakelike skin.

In the week leading to the exhibition, my art piece was shipped, right along with Pope’s painting, to Tate Modern. I packed all of my belongings and said goodbye to Carlisle Castle for the last time. I returned my key to Mrs. Hawthorne, gave flowers to the staff, destroyed my student card and cafeteria pass, and threw out my cape. The finality of it frightened me to death. I was never going to live here again. I would visit, perhaps, but not often, and I certainly wouldn’t be roaming the hallways with confidence, like I had before. I had no desire to return as a teacher. The idea crippled me. I didn’t want to teach; I wanted to create.

Papa drove us to our house in Hampstead Heath, where I was going to live until I found my next gig. Like many artists, I still wasn’t opting for higher education. I had the tools I needed from my studies at Carlisle Prep, and I believed in autodidactism. I wanted to work at a gallery, perhaps snag an internship with someone creative and patient, if I had any luck.

Everything was in motion, yet life had a stale feeling—like trying to run underwater.

“Tell me three things: something good, something bad, and something you are looking forward to,” Papa requested in the midst of a traffic jam, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel of his vintage AC Ace/Cobra. I looked sideways, tapping the edge of the window. It was difficult to think about anything that wasn’t Vaughn. He drenched my thoughts, contaminating everything else I wanted to focus on.

“Something good? I’m excited for tomorrow. Something bad? I’m frightened about tomorrow, too. Something I look forward to…” I trailed off.

For Vaughn to come back.

But I knew that wouldn’t happen. He said he’d disappear after he killed Harry Fairhurst, that once he had blood on his hands, he wasn’t going to smear it on me or anything in my life. And he was a man of his word. I needed to come to terms with it. Although he was crazy if he thought I could truly move on with someone else.

“I’m looking forward to nothing,” I finished quietly.

Nothing really mattered that much anymore. A journey without Vaughn was not worth taking. I wanted him to challenge my every step, to keep me on my toes. To drive me mad. To give me his laughs, his thoughts, his blood.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to do things with my life. But the aftertaste of nothing, the one I’d felt every day the past couple weeks, was going to chase me to the grave. I knew that with depressing clarity.

Nothing was going to taste as good as those brownies and chocolate.

I should have known they weren’t divine because of some secret recipe—he’d sent them from different places, in different countries, even. They’d tasted divine because I knew, subconsciously, that they came from him.

Vaughn didn’t stop sending me chocolate and brownies after he left, but I stopped taking them into my room. Frankly, it was a relief to move somewhere he couldn’t send them anymore. He didn’t know my personal address.

“That saddens me to hear.” Papa clucked his tongue, his thumb brushing the steering wheel.

We’d had many intimate conversations since Arabella left. Her father had picked her up—I saw them from my window, hugging, shedding tears. I hoped he was in a better mental place, that he could be there for his daughters the way my father couldn’t after my mum passed away.

“I’ll get my groove back,” I lied, feeling an incredible urge to down a bottle of gin. I understood alcoholics now. Numbness was far superior to pain.

“I know you will.” He nodded and started talking about the weather.

I rested my head against my seat and closed my eyes, drifting.

I wore a black wool, one-shoulder bustier dress, which flowed down my body with tulle made of lace. It had been sent to me by Emilia LeBlanc-Spencer the evening before the exhibition in a special delivery, and it contained a note that made my fingers itch to call her and ask for the meaning behind the unexpected gift.