Page 34 of Savage Daddies

Handwritten in small, cursive writing on the corner of the mirror is my favorite Jane Austin quote—“There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart.”

It brings a small smile to my face.

Of course, it’s one of the most famous Austin quotes, but the words are there, and they cut right into my soul. We never studied Austin, so she wouldn’t know it’s my favorite, but great minds think alike.

Also, it reminds me of her.

Of high school Zoe.

Of how she once was.

That free spirit.

Clearly, it’s still inside of her, otherwise she wouldn’t have remembered the quote. I take a seat in the chair and examine her makeup products. Lipsticks by Yves Saint Laurent. Dior. Elizabeth Arden cream. There are a few of those, all packaged similarly but with different ingredients, and I struggle to pronounce them all.

Polaroid photos capturing my attention, I set the products back down and stick my nose into her past. A lot of them are from high school. She wears micro tops and low-waisted skirts that expose her belly button. She smiles. Wraps her arms around her friends. She has a lot. Most of the groups in the photographs contain at least ten people, and she’s in the middle of them all every time.

One polaroid set apart from the rest catches my attention. Zoe flings her arm around the girl. She’s a little shorter, her face more youthful, but she sports the same red hair.

“My baby sister turns fourteen!”

She likes to write captions.

And not just memories. Food too.

“Prosciutto and parmesan—two Ps to elevate a spaghetti carbonara.”

“The best gravy for sausage and mashed potatoes. Secret ingredient—Merlot wine. Suppose there’s perks to Father being in his study all day!”

I change course. Examine some photos on another side of the room.

“Amy’s eighteenth. A lot of booze, I know, but I went into Father’s wine cellar and knocked myself out! He won’t notice!”

I look up. More captions.

And the next one shakes the ground more than an earthquake.

7

BULLWHIP

“The night three hunky,hot bikers took care of me.”

I read it again.

And again.

“You don’t wanna see the picture.” Poet covers it with his hands.

“Yes, I do.”

“Prepare yourself.”

“I’m already fucking prepared.” I rip his palm away from the polaroid and examine it.

It’s Zoe and a friend.

In masquerade masks.

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