The scariest movies to me were the ones where the villain doesn’t look like one. When the plot twists and you discover the seemingly benign character you trusted is the one actually pulling the strings, and the floor drops out beneath you.
As an evil smile quirked on Luke Rafferty’s lips, I went weightless, hitting the drop. There was the villain I’d anticipated.
Somehow, I forced my feet to move, although it was chaos in my mind. What was my next course of action? If the sculpture was broken and I refused to fix it, I’d drive the final nail into my career’s coffin. Yet, if my piece had survived the fall, what then? How could I leave it in this parasite’s hands?
His studio was breathtaking.
It made my dislike for him intensify. My feet moved silently on the floor, where different types of hardwood were laid but in matching warm tones. The floor was a work of art. How fitting. Rafferty literally stood on someone else’s beautiful creation as he built his own “art.”
The contemporary room was at the back corner of the house. A set of custom glass doors let out onto a stone patio, with the center of the doors positioned at the edge so the doors could swing outward and open the space on a ninety-degree angle. The entire corner was open now, and the setting sun was visible through the break in the trees of the backyard. I couldn’t see the ocean, but the waves beating against the shore growled in the distance. Overhead, there were frosted skylights, no doubt to keep direct sunlight from fading artwork or the stunning floor.
Rafferty didn’t have to, but he put a hand on my shoulder to shift me out of the way as the men brought in the crate. I closed my gawking, unbecoming mouth, and pretended his unnecessary touch hadn’t burned across my skin in a pleasurable way.
There didn’t appear to be any works in progress in the studio, and the white walls were bare. There was a table on one side, and beside it a bookshelf loaded with paints and other materials. The other half of the space held his tools of destruction. A workbench with a circular saw, its curved teeth gleaming in a sickening, endless smile. Beside it was an unlit blowtorch. Mallets, hammers, and chisels hung on the wall above.
I’d do anything to ensure he wouldn’t use a single instrument on my piece.
A clipboard was handed to Rafferty, who signed with a jerky flourish of movement. Had he used his artistic signature on the delivery slip? Pompous. With nothing left to do, the men filed out, shutting the door behind them.
“I should use that freight company more often,” he said, “if they’re going to deliver a beautiful woman with each shipment.” His compliment was jarring, but like all women, I found it was nice to hear.
“I’m not part of your delivery. I’ll call a cab to take me back to Maritza’s gallery when we’re done here.”
“All right.”
I stared at him as he retrieved a crowbar and gripped it with steady hands.
It was dangerous. The air in the room grew sharp and debilitating. All those years with my husband hadn’t toughened me up, or perhaps the anxiety I held over seeing a man with a weapon of destruction in his hands was a direct result of my time with Sidor.
I flinched when the crate was pried open and gave a loud groan of protest. I felt the crowbar ripping off my skin and exposing me to Rafferty’s eager gaze. The heavy blanket was peeled back, revealing the next layer of foam wrap. My breath halted as the long strands of white plastic were methodically unwound upward from the base.
Blood roared faster in my veins with each new, undamaged inch that was uncovered. My heart sank to my toes as he made it two-thirds of the way up the stem, and everything seemed intact. He moved faster as he uncoiled the wrap around the slender part, then slowed as he hit the first series of delicate petals.
The plastic shifted, and a faint but distinct clink made him hesitate.
Sadness and hope mixed together and left a sickening taste in my mouth. There was absolutely damage to my work. I didn’t want to see it but couldn’t look away either. I had to know if it was destroyed.
Rafferty let go of the plastic, and the end fluttered to the beautiful wood floor. He took a step back, holding the jagged petal pieces in his hands, his stunned gaze locked onto the wounded area of the sculpture.
The base of the piece was littered with what, at first glance, appeared to be garbage. A torn airline ticket. Crumpled receipts. A yellowing newspaper written in Russian. A stained marriage license. It had taken a long time to select the hundreds of items I’d replicated in ceramic and painted to seem inconsequential. Objects of everyday life and some more important, all stacked on top of each other, building up in a mound.