Page 12 of The Good Girl

“Yep, a music school governor saw it on my website and fell in love with it. She said the ‘determination on the girl’s face was transcendent’! Can you believe that?” Reid can’t stop grinning, and it’s infectious as I smile along.

Transcendent. I didn’t see determination in that painting. I saw heartbreak, exhaustion, and misery. Elena Montgomery never failed at anything, but violin was not for her, it was sucking her dry as she bled for it. I felt relieved when she’d given up, I thought maybe she’d taken a stand against her father, but instead I’d learned that she’d joined the debate team. I guess Randolph thought an interest in politics would look better with his constituents than classical music.

“Have you thought anymore about going to Ackerman? I think you should, man,” Reid says casually, interrupting my memories of Elena.

I stroke my chin and take a sip of my coffee. “I don’t think the Ackerman Institute of Art can handle me, Reid. I’m a law unto myself, as my teachers like to say.”

“That is true,” he laughs. “But I can’t see you being happy in a snobby preppy Ivy League school either.”

Pausing, I whisper, “Since when does happiness mean anything?”

My father wanted me to take over his business eventually, especially since I owned just under half thanks to my inheritance from my mother. I don’t know why, since he hated me, but apparently having a Radcliffe at the top of the company was more important than whether he actually wanted me there.

“Isn’t art suffering?” I say, mockingly, as I make my voice sound wistful.

Reid smiles, but this time it doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s always concerned about me when I bring the tone down. “Fine, but I still think you should consider it. The program at Ackerman is good.”

I nod as he tells me he’s wired the money into my account. With my art, I never used my real name, and the money I made went into a secret account I was keeping for emergencies. I mean, I had a trust fund and an allowance from my father, but there was something about having money that couldn't be controlled by anyone else. I wasn’t attached to my pieces in the way some artists were. For most, I could sell them without a second glance, it was only the ones of Elena that made me pause. Even then, I’d rather the images of her be shared so others could appreciate what I saw. I didn’t want to cage her. I wanted to set her free.

* * *

The house is in darkness when I pull up, I assume my father and Shandy—or was it Sasha?—have gone to bed as I use my key and let myself in. The staff will all have gone home too, so it should be easy to sneak up to the attic unnoticed. I know I said I wouldn’t be home tonight, but I wanted to catalogue some more of my paintings for Reid so that I could get them shipped to him next week. Meeting with him always made me feel validated, like the time I spent getting high and losing myself to the colors was justified. That painting Elena was justified. People liked seeing her. They were drawn to her, without even knowing her like I do.

Dumping my jacket in the hallway, I notice a soft light coming from the back of the house. I freeze for a moment, unsure what I’ll be interrupting if I just barge in, but when I don’t hear any voices, just the sound of running water, I know I’m safe.

My father stands over the sink, scrubbing his hands like he’s had them soaked in shit. I watch as he uses more handwash, and carefully scrubs under the nails, then repeats. Noticing the dark spatters on his sleeves, which are rolled up to his elbows, I bite my tongue. There’s even a red-brownish smudge on his cheek. I swallow as I feel myself going numb. The Society was like an ink blot, corrupting everything it touched, and while I was part of it, there were still lines I hesitated to cross. Like violence for fun. I never understood that. There were plenty of things that could be bought or done consensually, and for me, a murder always needed to be justified. Attie called me ‘morally flexible’ and I’d have to agree.

Leaning against the doorframe, I ask the question that has me watching my father with distaste. “Is that blood?”

My father doesn’t even flinch as he keeps washing. He must have heard my key in the lock, either that or he doesn’t care. He doesn’t look up as he bites back, “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, knowing I should stop, but I can’t make myself. “That isn’t an answer.”

The Society has no rules when it comes to the founding families. We do what we want, when we want, and we cover any issues up with money. That includes murder, kidnapping, theft, and any other crime you can think of. We allow it, and we never bat an eyelid. I know my father isn’t a saint, and he never pretended to be, but it was another thing to watch him washing blood from his hands in our kitchen like it’s a normal occurrence. I mean, I’d been and witnessed him working, I’d viewed interrogations and punishments but none of that had ever taken place on the terracotta floor tiles my mother picked out when she first decorated this house.

He growls, “I’m not in the mood to fight with you, Tristan, go to bed.”

“Answer me,” I demand. I can’t help the next comment that flies from my mouth, full of spite. “I thought you’d stopped after mom. Guess not.”

My mother had been an accident in the way that he had never meant to kill her. It was another one of their explosive fights where he’d lost control and gone one step too far. I’d helped him move her body. I had helped him cover up what he’d done, and then I’d called the cops to tell them that my mother had killed herself. They came, and of course they didn’t look too closely, their pockets full and the ‘truth’ already in their ears.

I was an accomplice.

I was a child of The Society.

And this was the life we lived.

My father strides towards me and grabs my shirt. “If you don’t want me to burn that fucking attic down, you will forget what you think you saw.”

I lift my chin at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

I was his only child. He hated me, but bloodlines were everything. Money was everything. I had inherited everything my mother had, which included just under half of the businesses since she was an investor. He needed me for power and status, more than I needed him right now.

“Really?” His face is so close to mine I can smell the whiskey on his breath. “Don’t push me, boy.”

I say nothing, but meet his glare. I wasn’t going to cower from him. He didn’t own me. After a few moments, he shoves me away so hard I stumble and fall headfirst into the doorframe, bashing my head on the wood.

“This town is nothing but a playground for the rich and the depraved. It’s best you learn which way your bread is buttered if you want to make it to adulthood,” he spits, before pushing past me and storming upstairs.

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