White Lies (A Twisted Fate 1)

At times, I had to pick my battles, and the doctor’s diagnosis was an already lost battle.

I had a number to call in emergencies while Alex was working, but wondering about his location wasn’t justifiable. Thank goodness a need to use the number never arose.

My phone dinged, and for a moment I thought it might be Alex. The caller ID confirmed it as Carson. Still, a smile formed at the familiar name. We’d been each other’s best friend since we were in preschool—a brother I never had. On the playground, I used to make him be my pretend husband when all the girls wanted to play marriage. He hated every second of being the groom.

Carson: Worried about you with how upset you were last night. How did it go with the lawyer?

Me: I didn’t go yet. Alex showed up and we talked. He’s coming home tonight and I’m going to see if it’s salvageable.

Carson: I’m here for you. Let me know if you need anything even if it’s simply to talk. I come home in a few days. Let’s get together. Mom and Dad want to see you, too.

Me: I’d love that. Let me know when you’re available.

Carson: I will. I’ll check in later after my meetings.

Me: Knock ‘em dead.

Carson: I’ll try.

I tucked my phone away. Currently, Carson was overseas tending to his hotels. One of their hotels in Italy currently had issues. He’d been there a lot over the last two months. The Whitmore Hotels were a five-star hotel chain unlike any other in their extravagance. I was proud of my best friend and all he’d accomplished.

Entering the studio, I stopped and looked at the half dozen unfinished works taunting me to finish them. But nothing came. I had no idea what was missing in them. Another couple dozen blank canvases stared at me from against the wall.

For hours I stared at them, willing inspiration to strike. It hadn’t in a long time. Nothing was going to be solved until Alex arrived home. Until then, painting would pass the time.

Quickly, I whipped my blonde hair into a messy bun. Then grabbed one of my white, paint-splattered, button-up work shirts that swallowed my small frame.

The images from earlier began to flow as I looked at the blank slate before me. Taking my paintbrush, I hovered over the pallet, figuring out which colors to pick. My hand shook as it had the last time I tried to paint. I tried to push the negative aside. My mind lost focus while the painting block returned, and my spirits plummeted as I worked to recapture the inspiration.

A picture of Alex and me caught my attention. It was from college before he left. We were happy. In love—like last night. His arms were wrapped around my shoulders while my lavender-grey eyes stared at the camera.

When the shutter on the camera clicked to capture the moment, I remembered thinking I’d found my happily ever after.

Love. We’d been in love then. I knew it.

I remembered the note from this morning and pulled it out of my jeans pocket, tracing the words. There was still hope. I looked again at the picture, wondering how we allowed ourselves to get so lost.

Grabbing my palette, I mixed my mediums as I kept glancing at the note, which now lay on the nearby stool. As I brought my paint brush up to the canvas, my hands shook again. I closed my eyes and felt the wood of the handle. I thought of the picture and the emotions I’d felt as my friend took several pictures.

The magic sparked through my fingertips as I let love encapsulate me.

Love.

That was the answer.

My eyes opened as a smile formed. The images from earlier came back, begging to be let out. I dabbed my brush in a blue-green mixture on my palette to make the mediums for the sky. This color was exactly as I’d imagined it. As I continued with my strokes, I felt at peace with my steady hand. My soul had found what it was looking for.

Finally.

Hours flew by as I got lost in the painting before me. It was like entering a trance. My father painted the same way. It wasn’t until we stepped back that we were truly able to see what we’d created. Mom said it was our gift of being able to paint with our hearts versus our eyes.

I took a step back to see my creation and grabbed a Twizzler. When I was done painting, I always snacked on them while contemplating my art. Dad had always had peanuts. As I looked at my creation, I knew I’d gotten the habit from him.

Before me, a man walked through the forest toward a light at the end of the road. The hues became warmer as the light drew near. Darkness beckoned him from the other side. Though his hand reached toward the light, he was still only halfway through his journey.

I sat back on the stool, thinking about the precipice of the man’s decisions. Whichever way he chose would affect him for the rest of his life. Dread came over me, feeling as though this was where my relationship was.

What if the man chose the darkness?

Where did that leave the light?

Was the light enough?

There was hope, though, where the light shone bright.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I jumped at the sound. My heart slowed as I realized someone was at the studio door. “Coming!” I called.

I quickly stored my brushes and traipsed toward the door, unable to shed my deep thoughts of the meaning behind my painting.

The door swung open. Chris stood there with two officers—all with solemn looks. A ball formed in my stomach, reminding me of the time the officers came to the door to tell us Mom was in an accident. That was the last time they had beckoned our door. I still remembered standing behind Dad as they told us the news.

I’d never forget the sound of agony ripping from my dad’s chest when he found out Mom was dead.

Hoping my voice was steady, I swallowed hard before asking, “What’s going on?”

Chris was the one who spoke. “Why don’t we go to the main house?”

This only raised my suspicions. When Mom died, they’d asked us to sit in the living room. Dad had refused and asked for the officers to get to the point. It was the worst type of torture knowing you were probably about to receive life-changing news.

I wanted to go back to ten minutes ago when I wasn’t facing this.

Whatever had happened, I wanted to know now.

“Is Nonno okay?” My voice cracked on the last word.

The officers looked at each other. I clarified, “Antonio Lorenzo Russo.”

“Ma’am, we are not here regarding a Mr. Russo. We’d like to sit and talk if possible, even if it’s inside your studio.” The slimmer officer had a pleading look on his face. Chris’s eyes filled with pity toward me.

My voice was stern. “No, tell me what is going on.”

The two officers looked at each other silently communicating. The heavier-set man on the left nodded. “Ms. Russo, I’m sorry to have to tell you this—”

“Get to the point. Please.” My patience was drawing thin as my mind went through a million different scenarios.

He coughed. “Your husband was killed this afternoon.”

Everything went black.

The crackling fire was unable to warm the chilled state of my body.

I felt nothing.

I was numb.

Alex was dead.

Burned.

Murdered.

The cops stated he’d been found at the edge of what they considered to be mob territory. They identified him by partial dental records after they found his driver’s license discarded in the grass not too far away. Apparently, that was all that survived. I closed my eyes in anguish.

They’d mentioned the name Fabiano. I’d never heard it before.

Alex had been dumped on the side of the road, like a piece of trash, in the tall grass at the park. They were investigating, and wanted to know if I knew anything. It was terrible relaying everything back to them.

The last time I saw him.

What was his state of mind?

Any strange happenings?

Any enemies?

Per Alex’s instructions, I told the officers I knew nothing. Repeatedly, it had been drilled into my head to trust no one. No one. Not many people had clearance to his cases. Plus, he never shared anything about the case he was on. It was a taboo subject. I’d been against the job from the beginning.

In the last two months, he’d been home sporadically.