Page 33 of Liars and Liaisons

Her mouth mashes into a hard line. “I don’t know. I’m not her keeper.”

“No, but she is yours.”

Willow’s my senior employee between the two of them and understands me far more than this eighteen-year-old.

“I think you should find her. Maybe spend your evening cleaning the barn or something else. Far away from me.”

Tears well up in her eyes. So quick to emote, just like her sister. “When are you going to stop punishing me for what happened?”

When I’m no longer unable to sleep because of the memories.

I don’t answer though. We both know nothing I say is going to make things better.

She lingers, and I can tell she has more she wants to get off her chest. But when I stamp out the cigar and reach for my glass tumbler, shewiselyslinks from the room. The door closes behind her, leaving me in suffocating near darkness.

My fingers twitch against the glass, and I glare down at the guitar on the floor, waiting to see if the sudden emotion flooding the room will strike inspiration in me.

Musical theory was beaten into me as a child—among other things. It’s how I learned the rudiments of writing and reading musical notations and how to pair harmonies in ways that were appealing to the ear based on genre and context.

I built my entire life around the fundamentals of what musicis, and now, I can’t even force myself to recite scores from memory. The ancient Greeks theorized that music reveals patterns of order that lead to the highest levels of knowledge and understanding, which is what I focused on heavily in my upper-level composition courses.

Unlocking the potential.

Yet here I sit, completely stuck in a place where nothing is created.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

My resentment toward my family, my former friends, andSydneygrows exponentially.

The glass starts to burn, scorching my fingertips where they rest. I set the drink down and turn them over, checking to see if the sensation is real—if I’m actually being punished for what happened.

But there’s no evidence. Nothing to ground myself in, except the phantom of my regrets.

So, I fold my hands together and sit there. The sky outside slowly darkens while that tune crackles among the flames—the one I can’t rid myself of, no matter what I do.

Perhaps this is my new lot in life.

One day, I’ll get used to being haunted.

* * *

“Word on the street is,you’ve got a houseguest.” Priya lowers her voice as she speaks into her phone, and I can’t help wondering if she’s discussing private matters in public again. “Anything you’d like to share with the class?”

Working my jaw, I grip the curtain tight in my fist. My nose practically brushes the glass as I stare out into the backyard, unable to look away as Violet engages in some sort of morning yoga routine.

Every morning at seven sharp, she drags an old towel out just past the pool and bends over, presenting her ass to the world, as if completely unaware of how enticing it is. Or perhaps, since I’ve made myself scarce to her, she no longer sees me as a threat.

That will need to change.

I didn’t bring her back here so she could be content.

In fact, I don’twanther to be; it defeats the purpose of bringing her here in the first place. I’m not paying her to lounge around on vacation, but to be an active participant in my family’s demise—even if she’s unaware of the part she really plays.

Violet Artinos is not only a pawn, but also an alibi.

Her enjoying her stay does absolutely no good in my revenge plot against my brother.

Sunshine bleeds into the room the longer I look, and I take a step away from the window, enshrouding myself in the darkness once more.

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