Page 16 of One Last Secret

Evelyn’s voice pierces through our happiness and drags us viciously back to the Earth. It’s not her voice itself that does it but the terror in her tone. Celeste and I share a look of alarm, then look back at the beach to see Evelyn wading into the water. She is wearing her pants, shoes and apron.

A chill courses through me. I have seen too much tragedy than to hope that this is some sort of false alarm or minor issue.

We rush back to the beach, thoughts of treasure and fairy pirates vanished from our minds. As we draw closer, I see that Evelyn is crying.

“What is it?” I ask her, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Victor,” she says. “He’s gone.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Celeste easily outstrips us, bounding up the path with the lithe grace that only the young possess. “Daddy! Daddy!”

“Celeste!” I call. “Wait! Don’t go inside alone!”

I fear that the cause of whatever has happened to Victor might still be there. “Wait for us! It might not be safe!”

Celeste ignores me and rushes inside, still calling for her father. I feel a rush of grief for her that mixes with my fear. Whatever trouble might exist between them, he is still her father, and the tenderness I see in his eyes last night shows me that he loves her.

Please let him be alive. God, please let him be alive.

I am not a religious woman, and if God does exist, my feelings for Him can best be described as ambivalent. I do ally myself to those forces that strive for good in this world, but I wonder sometimes whether God is truly one of those forces.

I pray anyway. I am near the point of panic, and Evelyn and Celeste are far beyond that point.

“Victor!” Evelyn calls, her voice carrying strongly enough that I see heads poke out of windows from the neighbor’s house fifty yards away. “Victor, if you can hear us, please say something!”

I rush into the house and hear Celeste wailing, “Daddy, please, where are you?”

My heart pounds in my chest, and my stomach turns sickeningly. “Celeste! Please wait for us!”

Evelyn outpaces me finally, rushing up the stairs toward Victor’s studio. A moment later, I hear an ear-splitting scream.

“Oh, God, no,” I whisper.

I force my nausea down and rush up the stairs. What I wouldn’t give to be thirty years younger right now.

The door to the studio stands ajar. I hear Celeste wailing from inside and Evelyn’s voice trying ineffectually to soothe her.

I run into the room and look around.

The room is trashed. Canvases lay scattered on the floor, most of them torn. Some appear to be half-finished works—abstract forms similar to the statues downstairs—but they are all covered in thick, goopy splotches of paint. That same paint covers nearly every surface in the room. Some of it mixes with the water dripping from all three of us to form a washed-out oil slick of fluid on the floor. Paintbrushes and bottles are tossed here and there. There’s a half-empty bottle of whiskey on a small table near the window, the only item in the room that appears untouched.

The window is shattered. Jagged spears of glass extend inward from the frame, seeming to point to the void in the center. It looks as though something—or someone—was thrown through it.

I share a look with Evelyn. She nods and holds Celeste tight. I’m glad she understands what I want. If Victor lies broken on the ground below, then Celeste must not be allowed to see him.

I move carefully to the window. I test my weight on the table, and when I’m satisfied it will support me for a brief glance, I look down.

The height is not particularly great—maybe sixty feet or so—but vertigo grips me almost immediately. I pull back and take two deep breaths, then look outside again.

There’s nothing there. The view straight down leads to a fairly flat portion of rocky ground. I see the glint of the shattered glass below. It sparkles with a disturbing resemblance to the quartz and amethyst in Celeste’s treasure trove.

But there’s no body. No blood. No clothing. Nothing to suggest that anyone fell through the window.

Something must have occurred here, though. There was clearly a struggle. Either someone attacked Victor, or he had a mental break fueled by alcohol and trashed his own studio.

Considering what I’ve seen of him, that’s actually not unlikely. Perhaps this story can have a… maybe happy isn’t the right word, but a less tragic ending.

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