Page 62 of Brushed and Buried
The exhaustion in his voice tells me how long he’s been carrying this. Ten years of keeping this poison locked inside, protecting me from a truth that would have sent eighteen-year-old me into a blind rage.
He’s right. At eighteen, I would have found Mitchell and beaten him senseless. I would have torn apart anyone who tried to stop me. I would have burned down the entire system that allowed predators like him to exist.
The thought still makes my hands shake with the need for violence.
“What happened to your art after that?” The question comes out before I can stop it. I know if there’s one thing that would be affected by all this, it would be what he does best.
Something flickers across his face, a vulnerability he can’t quite hide. “I shifted into different mediums after high school graduation. More commercial work. Abstract installations during college and beyond.” His voice takes on a careful neutrality. “I excelled in other areas, found success in spaces that didn’t require the same kind of personal investment. But the work I was passionate about, the portraits, the human studies…I may have tried to revive it over the years to come up with some pieces for the gallery exhibit, but that part of me just barely functions.”
“Why?”
“Because that required something I don’t have anymore.” His voice carries a quiet surrender. “When your inspiration comes from connection, from understanding people on a deeper level, and that ability gets taken from you, the work changes.”
The emptiness in how he says it makes it worse, like he’s accepted that the best part of his artistic soul died that night in the hotel and with me leaving him, and he’s made peace with the trade.
“I’m going after Mitchell.” The words come out before I can think them through.
Adrian’s head snaps up, eyes wide with something that looks like panic. “No.”
“He’s a predator. He hurt you. He’s probably hurt others.”
“It was ten years ago. He didn’t actually…it didn’t go that far. I couldn’t produce evidence anyway. And there are people who won’t want this stirred up.”
The warning sends a chill through me. “You mean my father.”
Adrian doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to.
“He orchestrated this whole thing, didn’t he?”
Adrian remains silent until he says weakly, “I don’t know.”
The corridor feels like it’s closing in around me. Ten years of living with my father’s version of events, of carrying the anger he wanted me to carry. Ten years of hating Adrian because that hatred served Victor Holloway’s purpose perfectly.
Ten years of being molded into exactly the son my father needed me to be.
“I have to get back to work,” Adrian says, picking up his clipboard with shaking hands. “And you need to let this go. Some wounds are better left buried.”
“Adrian, wait.”
But he’s already walking away, leaving me alone with the echo of his footsteps and the crushing certainty that my father’s web of control extends into places I never thought to look.
22
Vince
I walk back to my suite with fury coursing through my veins. Adrian’s words keep replaying, each repetition carving deeper into my chest until I can barely breathe. The image of him at eighteen, on his knees, scrambling to collect his scattered artwork while that predator watched, won’t stop flashing behind my eyes. My hands shake with the need to destroy something, someone, anything to match the violence tearing through my insides.
By the time I reach my door, my shoulders feel like they’re carrying concrete blocks. Every muscle in my body is drawn tight, ready to explode.
I need answers, real ones, not the sanitized bullshit my father fed me for years about discipline and focus and staying on track. I need to know exactly how deep his manipulation goes, and I need to know now.
The door slams behind me harder than I intend. My phone is in my hands before I consciously decide to make the call. VictorHolloway answers on the second ring, his voice carrying that familiar edge of authority that used to make me stand straighter.
“Vincent. I was wondering when you’d call.”
“We need to talk about Adrian Callahan.”
A pause. “I figured this might come up eventually.”
