Page 59 of Art of Sin

26desperation

When I seethe manila envelope propped against my front door, I figure it must be a delivery from Maggie or Trent. I had my phone off most of the day, which is more than unheard-of—it’s against every professional rule I’ve maintained for years. In fact, it wouldn’t have come as much of a surprise if they’d reported me missing after not being able to reach me for a few hours.

Keys in hand, I swoop the envelope from the floor and read the word scrawled in black. First, I recognize the sloping writing. Second, I register the meaning.

No.

My lips go numb. My hands spasm, then clench on the envelope until it crinkles. Buzzing fills my ears, the signature herald of shock. I should know.

The envelope tears. Falls to the ground in pieces. A single sheet of lined paper remains, the corner where I grip it slowly turning red from a paper cut.

The paper slips from my nerveless fingers, fluttering to the floor. After a quick, tense glance around the empty hallway, I notice something sticking out from the torn halves of the envelope. A newspaper clipping. Dropping to my knees, I pull the fragment free, knowing what it is before I even see it.

A picture from the L.A. Times from the gala last weekend. A candid shot of Gideon and me standing in a group of people. One of those token crowd pictures where everyone looks happy and rich. Even though it wasn’t, the smile on my face looks authentic. My dark hair contrasts my skin, untouched by a tanning bed in weeks.

And I see it. What he must have seen.

The ghost of a young girl he claimed as his. Used and warped with twisted love and pain.

All grown up.

* * *

I don’t entermy apartment. There’s no overt sign of a break-in, but the handle turned with no resistance. Unlocked—not how I left it. I don’t know how he got past the deadbolt, but he always was a resourceful bastard. He was inside my home. My space. There’s no telling what calling cards he left behind.

Was he here last night, too? When I woke up to the smell of his cologne?

The possibility is enough to send me sprinting back to my car, adrenaline like lava in my veins, thick and hot. Once I’m safely away from my building, I call Nate. He doesn’t pick up. I call him five more times before finally dialing Crossroads. To my relief, London answers.

“Is Nate working?”

“Deirdre? Is that you?” A door closes, background noise fading. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Is Nate there?”

“Yes. He’s working the bar tonight. You don’t sound okay—”

“Tell him to call me ASAP. And don’t let him go home alone tonight.”

“Wha—”

“Promise me, London!”

She sucks in a breath. “Of course. But, Deirdre—”

I hang up.

Fifteen minutes later, my tires squeal as I pull into Gideon’s driveway. I could have gone to Trent’s. Maggie lives even closer. Better yet, I could have driven straight to the police and explained that a madman who’s supposed to be dead has found me, and he probably wants to carve up my skin and paint with my blood.

Yeah, right.

I’m here because it’s the only place I want to be.

Gideon’s front door opens as I’m getting out of the car. I run to him. As fast as my feet will carry me, away from the invisible evil building at my back.

He catches me, swings me inside, slams and locks the deadbolt. Then he sets me on my feet and grabs my face in his hands.

“What’s wrong?” Short, clipped words. “What happened?”

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