Page 4 of A Touch of Dark
Her voice, breathy and high-pitched, sounds distorted through the door—but it’s not Simon’s, so I strain my ears to pick up every nuance. “I think we’re lost.” She giggles while leading her male friend by the hand. He keeps pulling on the sleeves of his oversized suit jacket but copies her manic, pixie grin.
“You just want to get back to that freak, don’t you?” he teases. “Maybe we can get him to paint you like that. Naked and shit—”
“Knock it off!” She strikes him playfully on the shoulder, and they disappear down the corner, leaving laughter behind like breadcrumbs.
Freak? Painting? Naked?
The thread of a mystery entices me more than continuing my birthday celebrations. For now. Some Band-Aids and a pair of gloves disguise my bleeding cuts. For added armor, I slip my winter coat on and I’ve almost reassembled my façade.
Almost.
A glance in the mirror hanging near the door reveals the dreadful state of my makeup. God, I look awful, my eyeliner smeared and my lipstick faded. Sighing, I swipe it off and salvage what I can beneath a stern expression.
I never cry. I’m the woman who conquers the world with a frown and a mild shade of red lipstick. But bloodshot eyes give me away now. I see myself for what I really am: a fraud. A pretender. A goddamn murderer.
Stop it.I catch my bottom lip between my teeth and bite down hard enough to chase the thought away. Then I scramble for the door and enter the hall as thunder snarls. There’s no sign of the couple, their trail of laughter now cold. I’m forced to chase their scent. Cheap perfume. Cloying cologne. I follow the smells to the set of elevators on the other end of the hall and take one down to the lobby.
I usually avoid this entrance. Guests and visitors alike flood in through glass doors at all hours. It’s noisy and loud—kryptonite to my nerves. Tonight, the atmosphere feels even more electrified than usual. A glance ahead reveals why. A crowd swells beyond the lobby doors, held back by the hotel’s security. Blurred faces jockey for space along the glass, illuminated by intermittent camera flashes. Reporters. For me? Daddy’s house has been swarmed for months, but no one has bothered me yet.
My palms start to sweat, which irritates the open cuts, and breathing takes more focus. Ironically, there’s a remedy for the anxiety nearby: the lobby bar directly to my left. Oh, the promise of more wine. Merlot makes for a tempting diversion, but something else catches my attention before I can claim a stool for myself.
Misery loves company, and I’m not the only one having a shitty night.
“How was I supposed to know?” a woman hisses into a cell phone. Hunched against the wall, she draws notice anyway, being tall, blond, and dressed to the nines in a black suit. Clutched in her free hand is a clipboard she’s waving through the air like a shield against guilt.
“Look. I had no idea he’d be this pissed off. I saw the address on some documents in his studio and they had amazing rates and—” She purses her red lips. “No. It’s too late to change it now. I think he’s on his way. I have to go.”
She hangs up and crosses the reception hall to stand near an archway that has a sign propped on an easel beside it. The real reason behind the sudden increase in publicity? The hotel sometimes hosts events open to the public. In fact, I’ve booked a few for clients of mine here and there. Book signings. Galas.
A Window into the Soulthis advert reads, red font printed over a black backdrop.Displaying the art of Sampson.I’d recommend the design to my own clients: It’s simple but bold enough to draw the eye to the artist’s name.
Sampson. I’ve never heard of him, though I appear to be in the minority. People are waiting in a sizeable line to enter the ballroom, craning their necks for a glimpse through the doorway.
“Miss?” The woman with the clipboard watches me expectantly from the distance of a four-person gap. I’ve wandered into the line without realizing. “Do you have a ticket?”
I shake my head, and she nods.
“Don’t worry. Sampson appreciates every guest, and we always offer vouchers at the door. I just need your name.”
“Juliana Thorne,” I say, stepping forward. “What exactly is this…”
My gaze cuts toward the doorway behind the woman and whatever else I meant to say dies in my throat. I’m vaguely aware that I’m still moving, drawn forward like a moth to a flame.
The portrait hanging from the wall ahead is a woman composed of ivory, lying contorted on a bed of blood-red roses, her eyes unseeing, her hands grasping at nothing. Etched with incredible care, she looks livelier than the person I see whenever I look in a mirror.
Woefully alive and yet painfully dead.
The artist didn’t spare an ounce of detail. Every wayward hair, pimple, birthmark, and scar of his subject is on display in stark clarity.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” someone exclaims beside me.
“W-what?” I blink as the rest of the world returns one jarring realization at a time. For starters, I’m standing in the back of the ballroom, nearly nose-to-nose with a painting hanging from the wall. A sheet of glass separates me from it and displays my reflection.
Wide-eyed. Mouth agape. Pupils dilated. Red lips that quirk into a frown. I’ve never seen this look on my face before. I take my time trying to pin down just what it might be but fail to come up with a single term.
“Here, you forgot to take this.”
A glossy brochure makes its way into my hands courtesy of the blond woman who worked the door.
