Page 95 of Shattered
“We can pay for the damages?” I asked, staring at a canvas that Rourke had completely blacked out.
He shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”
Today was our last day to settle affairs before setting off, which meant visiting the gallery and going to Rourke’s home. Rourke had a giant house in a wealthy, private community at the edge of Sage City, near the coast, where the upper class bought vacation homes they used once or twice a year. His adoptive father had a full-time house in the same community. The plan was to figure out what we wanted to keep and to give him those items to hold onto. He would keep them safe.
As far as what I would take with me, I had switched the lingerie in my suitcase, with a variety of clothes and a pastel pad. I didn’t need much else, and there was little I was sentimental about, with the exception being the vanilla candle that had burned every night with Rourke. It was still half full.
Rourke didn’t have much that he wanted to keep either. His house was decorated, but empty, as if he always had one foot out the door, ready to leave. He had put the two paintings, the one of the tree and the one of the moon, next to the front door to take to his father’s. We went upstairs.
In his bedroom, he pulled out a crate with a hidden compartment. Inside of it lay a bundle of dozens of pieces of rope. Some braided, some knotted. Every kill, symbolized in thin strands.
I reached for it. “Are you giving this to your father?” I asked.
He smacked my hand. “Gloves,” he said, handing me his leather pair. I hesitated for a moment. The gloves,those glovesspecifically, had been with him every night for every kill. I put them on, a wash of heat rippling through my veins, then evaporating. They were just gloves. Oversized gloves. They weren’t magical. I didn’t need to overthink it.
I picked up the bundle of cords. Men that had hurt women, men who never feared retaliation for their crimes. Men who had hurt women, like Rourke’s mother. He kept their lives with him, a heavy reminder of what he had done.
“To answer your question, no,” he said. “Either I’ll keep it with me, or we’ll destroy it.”
I had a better idea. “Can I have it?”
He cocked his head, but a smirk spread on his lips. “Sure.”
Armed with two paintings and a candle, we drove through the short distance to Rourke’s father’s house. The front door was tall and white, and seemed like the picturesque landscape for a wealthy family’s dream home. It seemed strange to think of Rourke connected to a life like that, but not as much if I remembered that he had Garrett in him too.
“You nervous?” I asked. I had assumed that he didn’t talk to his father often, but the fact that they lived in the same neighborhood could have meant the exact opposite.
Rourke knocked. “No,” he said. I held my breath;Iwas nervous. Even though I knew that this would probably be the only time I ever met Mr. Cabot, I was still meeting my lover’s parent.
The door swung open to a lanky man with thin, gray hair at his temples, the kind of man that looked like he could have been a club member at the Dahlia District, once upon a time. His shoulders were slightly hunched, but he stood with a proud gait, until he realized it was Rourke in front of him. A mix of warmth and shock washed over his face.
“Garrett,” he said. “You—”
“Can we keep these here?” Rourke said, lifting up the paintings. He nodded at me. “She’s got a candle she wants to keep here too.”
His father’s eyes flashed back and forth between us. He swallowed, and his smile wavered. “Where are you going, son?” he asked.
“Not sure,” Rourke said. There was defiance in his dark eyes, daring his father to ask further questions, knowing that he didn’t want to know the answers.
His father turned to me instead. “You’ll take care of him?” he asked.
The question caught me off guard. I don’t know what I expected from meeting Rourke’s only family, but the concern seemed unreal. From what I gathered, Rourke’s adoptive father knew that something was going on with Rourke, something devious, and yet he still cared for him. Worried about him, even.
“Of course,” I said.
By the time his father settled the paintings into one of the rooms, Rourke was already at the door.
“No hug goodbye?” I asked.
“No.” He held my hand, dragging me toward the front door. “This has been a long time coming.” As if that explained the eagerness with which he wanted to leave the house. To get on with our lives. To start the next chapter.
When night came, we drove to Jake’s RV parked in the woods near the Dahlia District. The glowing lights from the windows of the vehicle were like two giant eyes peering from the inside of a cave. Rourke waited in the car, and I crawled through the terrain, glad that I was wearing thick jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. I knocked on the plastic door, the thin material rattling loudly.
Jake held a gun on his hip. “The fuck you want?” he barked, but he jolted when he saw me. “Oh fuck, Mel. You scared the shit out of me.”
“I heard you were here.”
“Did the chef tell you?”
