Page 95 of Brutal Prince

Indi

Denard came through on his promise. When I get home, I see Marigold’s car parked out front, not in the garage, which means she came home specifically to crap me out.

Count on Marigold not to do this face-to-face.

Bitch.

I slam my car door shut and walk inside bristling, ready to handle whatever shit storm’s blowing my way.

Cigarette smoke taints the air. I hesitate, then track it down the hallway. I stop outside the door that’s always locked. The smell’s definitely coming from here. I lick my lips and carefully knock on the door.

There’s a thump, and then Marigold’s wavery voice calls out, “Come.”

I turn the knob and walk inside. After two steps, I stop.

This isn’t a study. It’s a bedroom. Paintings litter the walls — most done on letter-sized sheets of paper. Some pencil, some paint. Two large canvases dominate the wall opposite the bedroom’s large windows. But there’s no time to take in any details, because my eyes fix on Marigold.

She’s sitting in the middle of the floor, an ashtray beside her and a cigarette in a long holder trailing smoke into the air.

Her back’s to me, but I don’t need to see her face to know she’s been crying — the pile of tissues beside her legs is evidence enough.

I stand there, not knowing what to say, and instead finally take scope of the room.

I’d recognize my mother’s art anywhere. She had such a unique style. Her art concentrated on mythical creatures that looked somewhere between elves and fairies. She called them pixies, but they were nothing like the Tinkerbell I grew up with. Her pixies have sharp teeth and long limbs. Jagged nails and evil eyes.

The backdrops were always breathtaking. Fantasy settings full of strange flowers and twisted trees. But in each piece of art, there would always be one of her creatures. You wouldn’t see it at first — she liked to hide them away — but once you did you couldn’t stop looking.

I’m still staring at the right-hand canvas, trying to spot Mom’s creature, when Marigold speaks.

“The Lakeview police department called.”

My heart flies into my throat. I hurry forward, turning so I can see Marigold’s face. She’s got a photo frame in front of her on the floor. It’s a photo of my mother, probably no older than seventeen.

She looks just like me, but so, so much prettier.

“What…what did they say?”

Marigold takes a long pull at her cigarette. Then she gets up, moving stiffly but batting away my hands when I reach out to help her.

“They’ve closed the case.”

I grab her wrists, holding on even when she tugs at me. “They found him! They found him!”

Marigold’s red-rimmed eyes narrow. “Course they didn’t, you stupid child.” She tears herself free, her mouth twisting into a grimace. “The police these days are a joke. They said there wasn’t enough evidence for them to continue their investigation.”

“Can they do that so soon?” I throw my hand into the air. “It’s barely been a week.”

“I’m not a police officer, Indigo.”

I snap my mouth closed. Tears prick at my lids, but I refuse to let them fall. Despite the fact that I know Marigold’s been in here crying — possibly for more than an hour, judging from the ashtray — it would feel like surrendering.

I spin around, the paintings blurring as the first tear works its way past my defenses.

Moments later, I’m in the woods. It was the only place I could think of to go where I’d be alone with my thoughts. Where I could scream, and no one would hear me.

Except Briar, perhaps, if he happened to be out here. But what are the chances, right?

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