Page 22 of Sinful Skulls
“Yeah, sure. I guess it would be a little weird to call you Dean Baxter when it’s just the two of us.”
I notice he saidhere at homelike it’s my home, too. But maybe he comes from a family wheremy home is your homeis common.
He continues to fill me in on their childhood. It sounds like they were really close. They were both born here in Paris.
“How did my father end up in the United States?”
“He was trying to run from his true calling.”
“What was that?”
“Art.”
“But you said hewasan artist.”
He pushes away from the counter when the timer goes off. “Oh, he was. He left France and became a science teacher, but eventually his appetite for creativity returned.”
We move to the dining room table to eat and continue our conversation.
“I can’t imaginenotbeing an artist. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.”
He touches my hand. “It’s in your blood.”
I’d be lying if I said his touch didn’t make me feel a certain way. It’s nothing I’ve ever felt before. Henry feels like family, but I don’t know if I can trust it … it’s strange.
“I Googled him last night. He looks exactly like you,” I tell him, dropping my gaze.
He chuckles. “That’s because we’re identical twins.” He places a finger under my chin, lifting my face. “Go ahead, stare at me, touch my face. I’m the closest thing you’ll have to your father,” he says quietly.
Why is it so hard for me to look him in the eye?
“I know you want to. It’s the artist in you.”
I reach out and run my fingers over his face, following the sharp lines of his jaw. “Did he want to keep me?” I ask, dropping my hand abruptly.
“He did, but it just couldn’t be. I want you to know he was really looking forward to meeting you. He loved you.”
My heart squeezes painfully, and I turn away from him.
“It’s true. I have something to show you. Come on.” He stands and waves for me to follow him.
He leads me to a beautiful library. I walk around, looking at the books on his shelves. “It’s amazing in here …”
My words stick in my throat when I notice a painting on the wall. My eyes trail across the room.Oh my god, it’s filled with my artwork.Not the works I’ve shared with the world, but the ones I tossed in the dumpster.
My heart begins to race, and my cheeks heat before turning into flames. This is utterly humiliating.
He walks past me, brushing his fingers lightly over my stomach as he passes. “This one …” Henry runs his hand along the bottom of an elaborate gold frame. “This one is my favorite.”
I’m frozen in place. “How do you have these?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
“We come from a wealthy family. He’s had someone watching you from the time you were born.”
I don’t know whether to be flattered or terrified.
“It’s a shame you thought these were garbage.” He proceeds to stroll around the room, stopping to admire each disgraceful piece of my soul.
He clasps his hands behind his back. “This one is exquisite. You can see the inner turmoil on her face.” Again, his fingers trace the frame. “Her lips are parted enjoying her ecstasy, but her brows, those are pulled inward as she fights against it.”
