Page 31 of Dead Love
I glanced at a large wooden crate in the back, in the space under the loft. It occurred to me that he might have been keeping something inside of boxes, but I hadn’t checked any of them yet. It hadn’t seemed important; they couldn’t help me escape.
But what did I have to lose now? I checked a few tops, but they were stuck. Then, after moving to a fourth crate, the lid opened.
The dusty scent of wood fluttered toward me. Inside, there were canvases: white edges, grays and blacks bleeding over from the front. I pulled one out: a painting of a man dripping with dark liquid running down his face, gathering on his chin. The next one was a woman in the fetal position near the foot of a bed, her back to the viewer. Then, another person covering their mouth, their eyes wide. The bleeding mouth. A severed head. And at the corner of the crate, a plastic container the same size as a coffee canister. Inside, there was a gray powder, almost like a cement mixture.
I closed the lid, then put it back, staring at the paintings. Each canvas had another person, all of them in different states of agony. Another crate contained paintings of destruction; ruined farmhouses, a volcano erupting on a town, a house burning in the night. The colors seemed as if it was all done with charcoal, but the texture was off—clumped on the edges, then lacquered in place.
You inspire me, flower. I’ve been using you for my art.
These were Vincent’s paintings, then. Why did he have them boxed up?
They were beautiful. In a desolate kind of way.
I ran my hand over the gritty bumps, when a thought popped into my mind and I dropped the canvas. The texture—what if it was ash? I pulled out all the canvases, propping them against the wall, staring at each of them. A twisted mouth. A crying face. A bruised cheek. All the surfaces were bumpy, with gray grains of sand.
Had he killed these people, using the funeral home as his cover-up? Or did he know these people? Was he using the dead as his models, trying to represent them in life?
My head floated as I stared at the paintings. It was like looking at a graveyard. Was Nyla here? No—there had been too much dust on the crate for her portrait to be here somewhere.
I’ll take good care of her,he had said.
It was one of the only times he had seemed sincere, like he took Nyla’s afterlife seriously. Like he knew what it was like.
But of course, he knew. He owned a funeral home.
Emotions began to swell within me, the light dimming, threatening to overtake me, but I couldn’t shut down. I had to stay here. Had to be present.
I went to the next crate. A large coffee-table book was on top. I lifted it. Underneath, pomegranates layered the bottom, their rich merlot flesh some of the brightest colors I had seen in days. I picked one up, marveling at it in my hands. My stomach growled.
I hated pomegranates. But I was hungry, and this was just fruit. It’s not like Vincent had cooked it.
I threw it at the concrete. The flesh split open, and I scrounged the seeds off of the floor, not giving myself time to second guess it. My mouth puckered up, my taste buds clenching, but I closed my eyes and chewed, letting them explode in my mouth. A stomach cramp twisted through me, but I kept eating. Stared at the brick wall, trying to ignore the sour taste. Until I could pretend like I liked it.
The next crate had bottled water. As I was downing the second bottle, the door in the loft opened.
“You want to come up?” Vincent asked.
He was going to let me out that easily?
“Yes,” I said.
“Then come.”
Once I was up in the loft, we faced one another. He loomed over me, heat radiating from his body, his black eyes peering down. My fingers twitched. The bruise on his eye had faded, but it was still obvious, and yet he made no attempts to hide it. Almost like he was proud, showing off what I had done. Scars twisted around his arms and neck like they had always been there. My bruise was just another mark.
He lifted his arm, showing me his gun in the holster. He probably still had the knife too. He pointed to my arm. The skin was red and tender.
“That’s a tracking device. If you try to remove it, poison will be released into your bloodstream. We’ll clean it up for now.” He tilted his head. “Like I said, flower, if I want to poison you, I will.”
Chills ran through me as he dressed my incision. Then we walked down a path from his front driveway, down through the trees, into the cemetery. I hadn’t realized he lived so close to the funeral home. Sulfur snuck into my nostrils, and I cringed, but as we went deeper into the cemetery, the blooms of hydrangeas and roses overpowered it. As the Quiet Meadows building came into view, relief coursed through me. It would be easier for my parents to find me here.
The building was empty and quiet. He pointed where to go, and soon, we were in a large, open room with a brick and metal rectangular structure, with two small doors, like a giant oven. A large cardboard box was in front of it, resting on a conveyor belt. Vincent pressed a few buttons on the side, and the box moved into the structure. It must have been the furnace for cremation.
A television played in the corner:The police are now saying that it is likely that Echo is used to subdue victims before murdering them. It is not as simple as driving under the influence of a new drug, but something much more sinister,the newscaster said.And now, we have Sheriff Mike here to bring you the details.
We will find the Echo Killer,my father said, his fist clenched in front of him.Once and for all. I will not rest until the people of Acheron County are safe!
Commercials for pharmaceutical companies began playing. Relief swelled through me. The fact that my fatherlookednormal and that the newscaster hadn’t mentioned anything about my mother must have meant that she was okay. I hadn’t gotten to watch a lot of news, but I knew that the worse the news was, the better it was for ratings.
