Page 120 of Kept

He clears his throat. “He was obsessed with your – with Maria. He’d often say that she was his muse, and it made her uncomfortable. She started avoiding him, eventually, and I asked him to stop coming to the gallery.”

He takes a deep breath. “That was a few months before the fire.”

My mind races as I stare mindlessly out of the window. “So he may well have started the fire?”

Emerson nods. “I believe so.”

Ethan started a fire that killed my mother, and he took me away. Locked me up, and pretended that he’d saved me from some mysterious, terrible fate.

“I never questioned it,” I say numbly. “Not until the end.”

Emerson’s hand brushes mine. “You were a child,” he says gently. “None of this was your fault, Zella. I should have looked. You were my daughter, and you were right here, in the same city. All this time… I’m sorry.”

“There’s only one person at fault,” I say softly when his voice begins to shake. “And he’s not in this room.”

Emerson draws in a shuddering breath. “Maybe not. But we will find him.”

His voice is grim, and I swallow down the lump in my throat. I still don’t know how I feel about Ethan.

Emerson senses my hesitance and changes the subject. He reaches into his pocket, drawing out a bundle wrapped with a band. “I thought you might like to see these.”

My heart jumps inside my chest as he tugs the band off and starts placing photographs down on the table. Images of me as a baby, Emerson holding me up with a grin on his younger face. I pick up a photo of Maria. She’s looking out of a window, her hair curling around her face.

“She had hair like yours,” Emerson says softly. His fingers brush the photograph. “Not quite as long, though.”

I half-laugh, picking up my braid. “I really need to cut it. What was she like?”

“Oh, she was wild.” He grins. “She rarely stopped moving. This was an unusually peaceful moment, so I took it while I could. But Maria… she was a whirl of motion. Always looking for new adventures. And her art… her art was beautiful. She was a painter.”

“I’d like to see her art.” My chest aches as I stare at the photo. “I… I sketch. I never really painted before, but the guys set me up an art studio, and I’ve been practicing.”

He clears his throat. “And they are treating you well? You’re happy here?”

I pick up another photo. A small boy is holding a sleeping baby, his eyes wide as he looks down. “Yes,” I tell him. “I’m very happy here.”

After another hour and a second coffee, Emerson gets up to leave. I walk with him to the front door, and he turns to face me.

“I never thought that I would have this,” he says softly. “Seeing you, talking with you… it has been everything, Zella. Would you be willing to come to the gallery, soon? I could show you some of Maria’s art. And I’d very much like to see yours.”

My cheeks flush. “I’d like that.”

He opens his arms uncertainly, before closing them again. “Sorry.”

“No,” I say quietly. Moving up to him, I wrap my arms around him gently. He smells earthy, a mixture of linseed oil and the slight tang of tarps. Familiar, in a far-off way.

His eyes are glassy when I step back. “I’ll see you soon,” he says hoarsely.

When I push the door shut, Maverick slips out of his office, pulling the door closed behind him. “How was it?”

“Good,” I admit. “It was… good. He’s a very kind man.”

“He is.”

It’s a start.

46 – Zella

Therushofcoldair sweeps over my face. Autumn is well and truly fading now, melting away to the frosty bite of winter, but I can’t bring myself to close my little doors. I’m huddled in the bed of my original room, but sleep is a long way off.

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