Page 127 of The Painter and His Poet

He waves his hand in the air dismissively. “They’re acquaintances at best, and only tolerate him because of my relationship with their fathers.”

“You’re wrong. They care about him.Icare about him.”

“I really don’t understand what you see in him. He’s pathetic, nothing but a stain on this family name.”

“And you’re a coldhearted bastard!” I retort, my fist curling at my sides.

“I am who I am. Your mother doesn’t seem to mind,” he adds with a shrug.

“She doesn’t know the real you, clearly. She’ll be horrified when she finds out about what you’ve done, and has seen all the messages you’ve sent to me. She’ll divorce you.”

“You and I both know that’s not true. Your mother doesn’t care about you, all she cares about is herself. ButIcare about you, Harlow. I’ve done this all for you. Why can’t you see that?”

“Sending me threatening messages is caring about me? Telling me that you want to force yourself on me, that you wonder if I’d scream if you did? How does that show you care about me?!”

“Like I said, I wanted you to believe it was Sterling, he does have a rather obsessive nature.”

“You’re lying. There’s something you’re not saying. None of this is making any sense. Maybe at first that was your intention. But if you’ve known about us all along, have suspected that we’d grown close, why keep sending them?”

He chuckles then, and the sound is manic. I take another step back praying that Sterling arrives soon. I just need to keep him talking long enough until he arrives.

“Well, admittedly that’s because I’m a sick fuck, Harlow,” he replies, laughing at himself as though what he’s just said should be amusing and not down right scary. “Besides you were mine first, until he stole you from me.”

“What do you mean, I was yours first?” I ask, utterly thrown now by where this conversation is heading. My head is spinning from everything he’s said as I try to grasp the implication of his words. Robert’s eyes gleam with a twisted kind of satisfaction as I take another step away from him.

“Don’t you recall the night we met in Hollywood?”

“The night you met my mother, you mean?” I reply.

“Yes, her too, but it wasn’t just Melody that I wanted. It was you.”

“Me?” I whisper.

“You are a remarkable young lady, Harlow, or should I say mysweet songbird, and I’m a hot-blooded male. When I heard you sing that night atSmokey Joe’s, I can admit that I was enthralled, turned on even. So I wrote those messages in part to make you think it was Sterling, but once I realised it wasn’t working, I decided that I rather enjoyed the whole thing.”

“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “You’re sick!”

“So you’ve said,” he replies, taking another step towards me. “But now I’d like to experience what my son apparently has. I’m a jealous man, Harlow. I don’t like what belongs to me being used by someone else.”

“Oh my God. You’re here torapeme? Do you think I won’t fight you?”

“I truly hope you do. It’s getting rather boring rutting into your mother. For all her flirtation she’s a sack of potatoes in bed.”

“And then what? You expect me to keep quiet, to not call the police and get your sorry ass thrown in jail? You’re insane!”

“That would be incredibly difficult for you to do when you’re dead.”

“Dead?” I whisper out, my thundering heart stilling with abject terror.

“You’ve forced my hand. This could’ve gone so differently. I could’ve made you happy. You give me no choice.”

“You won’t get away with this!”

Robert throws his head back and laughs maniacally, and I frantically look around the room for anything I can use to protect myself with. My gaze lands on a metal palette knife that Sterling sometimes uses to press the oil paint onto canvas. It’s small but sharp, and it’s about the only thing I could use to try and protect myself with. I edge closer to it.

“What do you intend to do with my body?” I ask, trying to distract Robert enough so that I can grab the palette knife. “Do you honestly think you can get away with this?”

Robert sighs. “I’m a billionaire, Harlow. Money can buy an awful lot of things, including men who will cover up this little… indiscretion,” he says, his creepy smiles so unhinged that my teeth begin to chatter.

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