Page 82 of Crossing the Line
Hercules sits very still for several seconds. He seems to be considering my question. “I want to ask you something.”
I set my cappuccino back down. “Okay.”
“Why haven’t you ever asked me about my grandfather?”
His question makes me open my eyes wider. I didn’t expect him to ask me that. “I don’t know,” I say. But Hercules seems to know me well enough to remain quiet as my thoughts take me through several iterations of the truth. I start over again. “Maybe I never asked because your grandfather would remind me of my grandfather.” I twist my lips thoughtfully because there’s more. “Also, I don’t think I’ll be able to stand it if you say anything negative about my grandfather in defense of your grandfather.”
I draw my shoulders back as I inhale audibly and then release my breath. It feels good to finally admit that. Hercules observes me in silence, leaving me to wonder if I should have kept that nugget of truth to myself.
“I want to show you something,” he finally says.
My head feels floaty as I nod. He does something on his phone and then holds it out to me, and I take it. It takes me a minute to figure out what I’m looking at. It’s an oil painting of some sort. The entire canvas isn’t in view, though—just the bottom of it. I make out yellow tulips in a garden. Blades of grass. Hints of sky. The painting isn’t as polished as Lake’s works of art. Lake really is a phenomenal artist. But the piece in Hercules’s phone does have a professional-looking signature.
I read the cursive strokes. My jaw drops. “No way,” I whisper, feeling like all my breath has left my body.
“Yes,” Hercules says, nodding. “Yes, babe.”
