53

Maria
The warmth near the windows grows unbearably hot in the late afternoon, even with the central air blasting, when I descend the spiral staircase. The heavy drapes are pulled across the windows to block out the sun.
I know that two people on staff-their routine dictated by the sun-are tasked with monitoring the indoor climate to preserve Mikhail’s collection. I know that Mikhail won’t be home for hours based on the position of the drapes in the living room. A creature of habit, he leaves at midday and doesn’t return until dark when the drapes are pulled back again.
But the warmth isn’t why my palms are sweaty.
I wipe them down the front of my T-shirt before opening the office door. I know what Mikhail will think if he catches me, but I have no intention of sitting around and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Not anymore.
While he’s out causing chaos, I will find a phone to call my father.
Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply to keep my hands from trembling when I grasp the doorknob. He must have extra phones stored away somewhere. All criminals have burner phones to do their dirty deals. Criminal … It makes me feel better to think that way of him-to see Mikhail as he really is: a heartless, ruthless criminal out to get me and my father.
That’s what he is and nothing else to me, I lie to myself.
The view of the city from his office isn’t as inspiring as the eastern side. Only one wall is glass, and it’s tinted to obstruct the light. But the rare Pollocks and de Koonings make up for the darkness. I stare at the massive canvases covering the interior walls and admire the way a single impasto stroke can convey so much emotion.
Something catches my eye. Though it’s only a few charcoal lines, it takes a second to recognize what it is: a sketch of me.
There’s no mistaking the mass of red hair he’s colored in with Venetian Red. A single thumbtack keeps it in place, and the edges of the drawing paper are ragged, as if torn from his sketchbook. The lower right corner curls in the heat, refusing to stay flat.
It may not be framed or placed in great prominence, but I’m mesmerized by it-and his talent-nonetheless. I’ve imagined myself like that before. The way he sees me. I reach out and touch the drawing, my mind maddened by the contradiction.
How can he do something as tender as this and then be as twisted and dark as he is now?
But I cannot dawdle here. I have my own task to accomplish. Shaking myself out of my trance, I listen for anyone who might come looking for me. Silence pervades the rest of the penthouse, reinforcing the knowledge that I shouldn’t be in here. I turn my ear toward the hallway. Nothing. Dominika forbids the staff from wearing shoes with hard or rubber soles-anything that squeaks or clacks against the polished floors-so I listen harder for the tell-tale soft shuffling of bare feet.
I stand still for a moment longer, until I convince myself that no one will suddenly catch me.
I scan the room, and my gaze darts from the wide antique table he uses as a desk to the row of black matte shelves on the opposite wall filled with art, oversized books, and various oddities.
He wouldn’t leave a phone on display like a piece of art. So, I start with the row of drawers first. With a quiet step, I approach the closest one and find it locked. No surprise there. But I give it one firm final tug just to make sure. It refuses to budge, and I continue down the line, pulling one after another.
Locked.
Locked.
Locked!
Ugh! I slap my hand against the smooth matte front, and it stings. I glare at the round metal locks that won’t open without a key. Fuck. But I can’t stop now.
Finally, one opens, and my fingers tremble as I rummage through the drawer, sifting through various back catalogs from auction houses. I pull one out for a closer look-the Bill Blass Collection. I flip through pages of expensive Americana and quickly toss it back. The only unlocked drawer, and it’s filled with auction catalogs. Of course.
I give up on the drawers and head over to Mikhail’s desk, refusing to look at the sketch of me, but my own instinct betrays me. Unable to help myself, I hold down the bent corner. Frustration makes me want to tear it down and rip it to pieces, but self-preservation stays my hand.
C’mon, don’t be stupid, I remind myself as I let it go. If I’m caught, I’ll be in a world of trouble.
The other side of the desk is a slim drawer almost hidden underneath the scrolled edge of the surface. I tug at it, and it comes flying open. Quickly, I balance it on my knees, but it tips over to one side, and I watch in horror as the contents fall out.
They crash to the floor, and I turn my eyes fearfully to the closed door. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Someone must have heard that!
A second ticks by. A heartbeat follows. Then another. And another.
But no one comes.
Taking a deep breath, I slide the drawer back carefully into the desk. My eyes flicker toward the door again. It remains shut, thank God. Papers, pens, power cords, and paper clips litter the floor at my feet. My heart beats too fast as I carefully pick them up and arrange them as neatly as possible in the drawer. I pray that Mikhail won’t notice. Or maybe he won’t open the drawer for a long time.
Not that he actually works here. Whenever he’s home, Mikhail either stares at his paintings or glares at me.
I step back once the inside of the drawer looks nicely arranged. Maybe he’ll think the staff was just cleaning, I try to reassure myself. Sure, Maria, just keep on hoping he’s that stupid.
I chance another glance at the door, wondering if I might find something in the stack of papers. Fuck it. Throwing caution to the wind, I pick them up and start thumbing through them, but there’s nothing of interest. Random letters about the artwork he has acquired or wants to acquire from the auction houses-Christie’s, Sotheby’s, Phillips, Bonhams, and Heritage. Letters addressed to him personally and signed with a pen, not by computer.
I put them back. Useless.
Several photographs have slipped out of an old datebook and lie on the floor. I bend down to pick them up and look at each one with interest. Curious despite my anxiety, I hold them as if they’re as valuable as the paintings on the wall. A dark-haired woman with dazzling green eyes holds a baby on her lap while two older children look on. The older boy looks directly at the camera, and his hand rests protectively on the woman’s shoulder. The girl leans in toward the baby, her gaze soft as she presses her cheek to his.
I know without names what I’m looking at. Mikhail on his mother’s lap, surrounded by his older siblings, Desmier and Larissa.
Tears well up in my eyes, and I don’t know why I feel this way over a photograph. Maybe because they look so happy. And now two of them are dead. I stare at the baby and how he smiles at the camera, genuine and cheerful, not tortured and cruel. Then my gaze passes to Desmier, and I see the same hard seriousness that now resides in Mikhail’s eyes.
Mikhail became something he wasn’t meant to be.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, slip the photograph into the datebook, and flip the next photo.
As soon as I do, it freezes me in place.
I see a young Mikhail, a boy no older than eight. But it’s the other person in the photo that takes my breath away.
No … I gawk at the photo. This can’t be real!
It can’t!