Page 46 of The Heart of a Villain

My focus shifts to the other paintings nearby, showing more of the same picture just with different details.

Sometimes, the creature is sitting on the bed during the day, while in others the girl grabs for the door as the monster fists her hair, keeping her close, and tears stream down her cheeks.

“Oh God,” I whisper, covering my mouth because the images are so vivid and detailed, especially the pure terror on her face, which leaves no doubt she was painting from a memory.

Sometimes, art becomes an outlet for our deepest pain, especially if the world fails to listen to us when we cannot express it in words.

I watch her draw another image. This time, the creature is blue and is now standing in the middle of the room. She picks up a purple crayon, sketching a huge wall, and then draws herself hiding behind it.

“How does the toy protect you?” I ask her, and she blinks at me in surprise, as if she forgot I’m here.

“Whenever the monster sees the toy, he runs away.” She lifts the bear and nuzzles her head into it. “Mommy gave it to me.”

My ears perk up at this. “You must have loved her very much.”

“Yes. But I don’t remember her.” She frowns. “She was very pretty. Under the pillow.” I blink at the last sentence, not understanding what she means, and she huffs. “Photo under the pillow.”

Sliding my hand under said pillow, I snatch out the black-and-white photo of the woman laughing into the camera as her hair billows backward. Happiness sparkles in her eyes while the blinding sun shines on her, giving it such a warm vibe I can’t help but smile sadly. “Yes, she’s very beautiful.”

She grabs a red crayon, drawing blood on the floor, and lowers her voice once again to a whisper. “Want to know a secret?” At my nod, she says, “I stole it.”

I glance at the photo and then shake my head. “You did? From where?”

“I found it in Uncle’s office.” She scrunches her nose in distaste and gags for good measure. “Bad man! Bad! Bad! Bad!”

This information catches my attention while several thoughts float in my head.

Why would Jade have a picture of his brother’s wife? And why does Lavender call him a bad man?

Then it hits me.

“Is Uncle Jade the monster?”

She freezes at my question, the air hitching in her throat while panic flashes on her face before she hides it in the teddy bear again. She continues to color, her movements erratic, as her hands are shaking.

She clearly refuses to answer, but her behavior is an answer in itself.

Whatever he has done to her resulted in deep fear that hasn’t gone away, even under her brother’s protection.

The crayon bends in two as she squeezes it too hard, and she hisses, glaring at me. “Be quiet.” She warns me, “Walls have ears.”

What in the hell is going on with this family?

Her hands clench, her breathing speeding up, and I know I have to defuse the situation or she will go all hellion on me. “I’m so sorry.” I shift the focus back to the picture. “You have your mother’s hair.”

She beams under my praise. “Yes. And I love flowers, just like her.”

“Oh?”

“Our garden. She spent hours in it. That’s what Rafael says.”

I don’t miss how resentment coats her voice at the mention of her brother, and I guess that’s another layer of what the hell is hiding in her mind.

“Mama was a gorgeous flower that bloomed among beauty and peace, calmed by the nature that protected her from the storms.” She wipes away a tear sliding down her cheek. “And he crushed the flower.” A sob slips past her lips, and without thinking, I sink to the floor, wrapping my arms around her and giving her a tight hug.

All my experience yells at me that I’m breaking all protocol in the way I should handle a difficult patient, but right now, she’s a little girl who grieves for a mother she never got to know.

All while being afraid of a man who wanders this castle, having such easy access to her.

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