Page 2 of Dangerous Deception

Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“Addie?” The sudden arrival of my father makes me jump, and I half-slide off my stool, bracing one foot on the ground and turning to face him.

“Papà?” My knuckles graze one last time against my damp cheek and I force a smile.

“Addie, my darling.” My father is a portly man with a thick, grey mustache and small eyes that twinkle like stars every time he smiles. Despite his rotund form, he hurries toward me with alarming speed. He immediately clutches one of my hands between both of his, causing my damp paintbrush to drift precariously close to his pristine charcoal suit. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing.” I sniffle, forcing a wide smile. “I’m fine. It’s just the paint fumes, you know?”

His eyes dart around my face, then he smiles, which causes his mouth to disappear up into his mustache. “Are you sure?”

I nod quickly, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind my ear. “Positive.”

He already has enough on his plate with the death of Carlos and the entire Giordana family. They were our ticket to increased strength to help defend against the Varricchios. Now we have nothing and no one to help us. I want to ask him what the plan is or what our next steps are, but I’m not sure I want to know. I trust him to have a plan, but the alternative is just impending doom while waiting for the Varricchios to turn up at the door.

“What are you working on?” He pats the back of my hand and then releases me, turning toward my painting. “This is not for the hospital, is it?”

“Yes.” I set my brush down and slide the palette back onto the table next to my easel. The table is absolutely covered inpaint, a complete map of every painting I’ve done over the years dating right back to the first time my mother put a brush in my hand. There are few things in this home that hold such a wealth of memories.

“Are you trying to scare the little ones into getting better?” My father picks up the painting and turns it in a variety of directions as if he’s some kind of collector admiring my work.

“No, Papà.” I chuckle. “It was supposed to be a painting for spring, with daffodils in his hand and a few easter eggs around his feet, but something about the way he turned out just made him more…”

“Scary?”

“Unique,” I correct. “So I went with it, and now he’ll be ready for Halloween.”

“Beautiful,” my father murmurs, using every ounce of his fatherly pride to mask his obvious dislike for the painting.

“Thank you, Papà.” I’ll accept the compliment regardless. All that matters is the sick children think he’s cool. After all, it’s they who will pass him in the corridor.

“Will you do another for Easter?” He sets the canvas back down on the easel.

Handing him one of my spare fabric rags to wipe any transferred paint from his fingers, I nod and begin to clean up my supplies. “Yeah, I’ll try again tomorrow. I want to visit the hospital on Friday, so as long as I have something to take to them, it will be fine. I hate turning up there empty-handed.”

“You do so much for them, Addie,” my father says, and sadness enters his voice.

I pause with two paint pots in hand and turn to face him. The look on his face is distant as he turns away from me and gazes around my studio.

The walls are covered in various artwork, all painted by my mother or me before she passed. My mother’s style wasincredibly delicate and elegant. She painted masterpieces, and while that had been my goal when I started to learn, I found my joy in painting for children. The differences between the paintings on the wall are stark. The day my paintings became the majority was a painful day.

If she were still here, I’m confident she’d be proud of me. And she’d love that little serial killer bear.

“Papà?” I place the pots down in the large, white sink in front of the windows and cross back toward him. “Is everything alright?”

“Quite alright,” he says, staring up at one of the landscapes my mother worked on. “This one.” He points to it, drawing my eyeline upward. “She painted this just after we got married.”

“I remember.” I stand beside him, studying the delicate city skyline and rolling fields. “She told me it was her proudest work.”

“She was mine,” he says, his voice full of love.

All these years later and he still harbors such devotion to her. Will I feel the same about Carlos after fifteen years?

Suddenly, my father turns toward me and takes my hand. “Come, Addie. I must tell you something.”

I knew it. As soon as he entered here and used my nickname, I knew something was wrong. My father isn’t exactly a direct man, and it takes him a while to work up to talking about the important things. An awkward quality to have in a world where snap decisions are required to keep people safe, but it’s worked for him so far.

“You’re scaring me,” I say with a burst of nervous laughter. “Did something bad happen? What could be worse than what happened to Carlos and his family?”

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