Page 12 of Torched Spades
Blinking, Becca turns to me with a blank look on her face. “What?”
I tip my head backward. “The black and white snuff art.”
Pushing her shoulders back, she lifts her chin in that haughty, “I’ve got my shit together” way that’s always just a little too forced. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that term.”
Lies.Still, I’ll play along. I’m too curious how this will play out.
“Canvases that showcase happy little death scenes. That’s some bold decor for a psychiatrist’s office, Doc. Most doctors hang sunsets on the wall, not a two-faced corpse and some dancing demon girl.”
To my disappointment, Becca doesn’t rise to the bait. “I take it you’re not an Oscar Wilde fan.”
“Can’t say I’m familiar with his artwork, no.”
“That’s probably because he’s a writer.”
Instead of being deterred by her cool derision, I find myself spurred on by it. “I assume those are scenes from his work,” I say, casting another side-eyed glance up at the muted eyesores.
She nods toward the man. “That’s fromThe Portrait of Dorian Gray.”
“A real uplifting, hit-ya-in-the-feels kind of story, huh?”
If you’re a serial killer.
Becca isn’t amused. “It’s a poignant lesson in the true nature of the soul.”
“Pretty sure that guy’s soul peaced out already.”
That’s putting it mildly.I wasn’t kidding about the two-faced corpse thing.The damn thing is a sketch of a man with two faces. One’s flesh is being replaced by his skull, and the other’s fading away like a trail of goddamn smoke. But the demented cherry on top is the empty black sockets.
Good thing it’s mostly abstract brush strokes. Otherwise, patients would leave here with more issues than they came in with.
“And that one?” I ask, pointing to the dancing woman.
Becca tilts her chin, her blue eyes darkening as she studies the veiled woman. I watch her, that rigid formality slipping away to another place deep within her mind. I glance back at the painting, trying to figure out what about it has her so mesmerized, but all I see is a pissed-off woman missing limbs and a torso.
Screw it.There’s enough veiled bullshit in everyday life to waste time searching for it in a fucking brushstroke.
However, after turning around, I suspect I may be the only one in this room who believes that. The way Becca is still staring at the angry swirls and splotches, it’s as if she’s not seeking truth so much as burying it.
“Doc?”
“That’sSalome,” she murmurs softly.
“What’s her story? Is it a ‘poignant lesson’, too?”
Her lips part as if she’s about to answer me, but then she snaps them shut. The shift in her demeanor isn’t just visible, it’s palpable. Talking aboutthatpainting exposed a chink in her armor. Something tells me if I dig deeper, I’ll find a scar.
There’s a whisper of silence, then Becca’s posture straightens. “We’ve veered off track. We were talking about your decision to have your probation transferred to Rhode Island. Why Providence?”
I shrug. “Why not?”
“Avoiding my question by answering with one of your own violates our deal, Mr. Malone. Let’s try that again, shall we?”
Her verbal middle fingers are making me regret performing three weeks of deranged improv theater with Dr. Kerrigan. I hated the old bastard, but at least he never challenged me.
“Don’t criminals usually leave the scene of the crime?” I quip. She purses her lips, and I see a rebuttal forming in her eyes, so I quickly add, “I was born here. Figured it was a good place to start over.”
“That’s very symbolic.”
