Page 32 of The Golden Hour

With two minutes to spare, I slip into the dark garage and carefully close the door. I’m halfway down the hall to my room when I hear the familiar beep beep of the alarm being set. Like a net has closed around me, cinching tight, I feel the air in my lungs compress. Quickening my steps, I dart into my room and lock the door, then stand panting until my heart rate slows.

When I see the Post-it on the nightstand, my pulse jumps anew. Someone was here.

Calm down, idiot. Maybe it was Lizzie.

I grab the note and read the three words.

Painting over dresser.

“What the hell?” I whisper, glancing at the framed Monet replication.

Hackles rising, I walk to the dresser. My eyes track slowly over the canvas and frame, and when I don’t see anything, I look again from another angle.

And there it is.

A tiny, shiny black circle set into the baroque, gold frame near the bottom left corner.

A camera.

18

When I walk into the formal dining room for family dinner the following night, I’m intentionally ten minutes late and armed. My weapon? The minuscule camera I dug out of the painting’s frame with scissors and a steak knife. The frame is a goner, but at least I was careful with the canvas.

The first course—ceviche, which I hate—has already been served, and I’m met with a range of reactions. Vivian’s mouth is pinched in disapproval; Lizzie’s fork slips from her fingers and clatters on a dish; Ellie stares at me with openmouthed shock.

And finally, my dear uncles Enzo and Franco jolt to standing, their fixed smiles disappearing as I stalk forward and toss the camera on the table next to my stepmother.

“What on earth is that?” she asks with convincing surprise. She picks it up, examining it like she’s never seen anything like it before.

“It’s a camera I found in my room.”

Lizzie gasps. “What the fuck?”

“Language,” murmurs Vivian distractedly. She glances up at me, and for a moment, I think she’s being genuine and didn’t know about the surveillance. Then her eyes flicker behind me and narrow with accusation, and I can’t believe I didn’t put two and two together before now.

I turn a glare on Franco, the family’s tech wizard. He offers a rueful grin, his hands lifting, palms facing me. With his slicked-back hair and narrow face, he always reminded me of a weasel. And he still does.

“Hey, can you really blame me? We aren’t the trusting sort, Callie-Bear, and you’ve been gone a long time. Besides, it was just sound. I’m not creepy like that.”

“Yes, you are,” mutters Ellie, and Lizzie snorts.

Vivian ignores the girls. “Enzo, did you know about this?”

Enzo, beefier and rougher all around than his younger brother, shrugs. “Maybe.”

Vivian sighs and turns her attention back to me. “Callisto, I apologize for the breach of your privacy. It was inexcusable. Franco, apologize to your niece.”

“Sorry,” he says, without sounding sorry at all.

“Now for the love of God, everyone sit down so we can eat like civilized people.”

Just like that, it’s over.

I sit in the empty spot adjacent to the head of the table and Vivian. Chairs shift, forks lift, and the rest of the meal passes like a theatrical production of normalcy, with questions like, How did your paper come out, Eleanor? and Any more thought on what college you’d like to attend, Elizabeth? When my sisters attempt to engage me, Vivian interjects and steers the conversation away.

I pick at the main course—veal, which I’m also not a big fan of—and am ignored by everyone but Lizzie, who sends me funny faces and eye-rolls. Her engagement is all that keeps me anchored in the present, reminding me I’m not a ghost.

By the time dessert is cleared, my shoulders are knotted with tension. I didn’t know what to expect from confronting them about the camera, but the swift, blasé response has left me reeling and deflated, and feeling much like I did most of my life in this house—powerless.

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