Page 109 of The Beast's Heart

I’ve heard it said that all Gen-Zs are natural photo- and videographers. Born on the cusp of the generations, I missed out on that particular gift. Alisha, however, was granted it in spades.

We sit together at Geoff’s old workstation one Saturday, going through her recordings. She managed to capture Enrique and Ben making paper chain decorations and devolving into a giggling sword fight with empty wrapping paper rolls. She’s somehow also got footage of Mal very intently practicing a piano piece he wants to perform on the night. He’s been extremely cagey about having any audience. He’s even been shy to practice around me, and I’m his tutor.

“How on earth did you get him to agree to this?” I ask.

“I didn’t.” She looks incredibly smug.

“I’m not sure we can include footage you obtained without permission.” I frown, remembering something. “Actually, maybe you can clear something up for me. I was under the impression that we weren’t meant to show your faces, given that you’re fosters. Geoff seemed to think your case was different?”

Alisha shrugs. “I guess Adam must have got permission from the state. You know, for that gala thing. It was always the plan to show us off.”

Perhaps, but Geoff was so cagey about it last time we spoke. The punch to the face put the subject out of my mind before I had a chance to ask Adam about it.

Alisha points to one of the thumbnails on the screen. “Who’s that?”

I gave her my phone to record with and the picture she’s landed on is from the camera reel before her footage starts. She’s pointing to a photo from Zane and Sebastian’s wedding. I open it so she can see it at full size. My chest hollows out. It’s a snap of me and dad. He’s grinning, holding a flute of champagne up to the camera, his other arm wrapped tightly around me. I look flustered, but happy.

“He’s my father.”

She frowns. “You seem sad.”

I didn’t think my reaction was that obvious. Then again, she’s always been observant. “We… had an argument. Before I came here.” I’m not sure what he’d make of all this. Of me, of Adam, of all the rules of emotional distance I’m breaking.

“What about?” Alisha asks.

How do I even begin to explain? I consider my answer carefully. “About… his illness and what was best for him.”

“He’s sick?”

I nod.

She looks back at the screen, a deep line between her eyebrows, her sorrow plain. “You should make up, while you can.”

I swallow hard and close the picture. I hate that I might have stirred up some well of her own past grief. “You did an excellent job with these videos. Let’s see if we can get Mal to agree to us including his playing. He’s quite good, isn’t he?”

Adam has his own work to keep him up late—interviews and press releases and all of the other tasks that come with the build up to such an event. One of the few evenings he manages to join me in the library, he sits quietly watching me as I pack away collectables into lots. There’s a heaviness to him, a tiredness that runs deeper than a few long nights working.

I pause, setting aside a daguerreotype of some Victorian ladies enjoying a picnic. “We don’t have to do this, you know? We can call it all off. It’s not too late.”

That small smile appears behind his beard, but he shakes his head.

I climb up and join him on the Chelsey sofa and take both of his hands in mine. “I mean it, Adam. No one would think any less of you. We can think of another plan to make money for the foundation.”

He shakes his head again and cups my cheek. “It’s time, Jonathan. I do miss him. I always will. But it’s time to stop living like I’m the ghost, haunting his life.”

44

ADAM

Time is going too fast. I’ve blinked and weeks have rushed by. At first six months in this house seemed like an eternity, but now it feels like no time at all.

One night, after I’ve wrapped up a call with the New York office, I come down to the library and find Jonathan passed out on the sofa, holding some or other rare edition in his hands. He’s been pouring himself wholly into this project, working all day as a teacher and all night as an auction coordinator.

I crouch beside him, brushing one of his golden locks away from his eyes. He looks so peaceful. Angelic. My heart clenches.

Mon cher, you need to tell him,Lloyd’s imaginary voice says. I can feel him here beside me, in the rubble of the life we imagined, standing among the boxes. I can imagine it so clearly, it’s almost real. I can nearly feel his hand on my shoulder.You’re running out of time. You need to tell him.

“I will,” I whisper. “I just need to find the right moment.”

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