Pope visited me every other day, his face marred with paint and triumph.

His piece was good.

Real good.

We’d share a kebab and drink Irn-Bru and crochet our plans for the future. The theme for the exhibition was the most promising young artists in the world, and I was excited to be included. Although no matter how much Papa assured me I’d earned my place fair and square, doubt gnawed at my stomach every time I looked at my piece.

I wasn’t supposed to be a part of the exhibition.

I was a last-minute replacement, second best, a fill-in.

And it wasn’t the only reason my stomach always felt hollow.

Three days after Vaughn tore me to pieces with his letter, the news came out that Harry Fairhurst had committed suicide in his St. Albans mansion.

His death was met with cold, unnerving silence from his colleagues, close friends, and fans. Shortly before he was found dead in his bathtub, swimming in a pool of his own blood, some past and current students at Carlisle Prep had plucked up the courage to come forward and call him out for his sexual abuse.

Dominic Maples, a current senior, had led the petition against him.

Apparently, the posters I’d hung everywhere, combined with a traumatic experience involving my uncle, encouraged Dominic’s decision. He explained in the news that there was something sinisterly liberating about watching Fairhurst’s face on paper poked, dented, and smeared in paint, almost beyond recognition. It made him look less powerful, human. It occurred to me that many mortals were burdened with the false status of a god, and almost none of them enjoyed the power that came with it.

Vaughn Spencer, as an example.

While Poppy refused to believe the mounting evidence against our uncle and insisted on attending his small, intimate funeral, my father seemed furious and disgusted with his cousin. He refused to speak of him. We both opted out of any and all tributes and memorial arrangements for Fairhurst.

Father wasn’t stupid. He must’ve connected the dots leading to Vaughn’s disappearance. All the same, he never questioned Harry’s so-called suicide.

But I knew.

I knew Harry Fairhurst hadn’t committed suicide.

To put an end to your life, you must first feel acute regret, guilt, or unhappiness. I’d grown up next to my uncle. Not once did he look uncomfortable in his snakelike skin.

In the week leading to the exhibition, my art piece was shipped, right along with Pope’s painting, to Tate Modern. I packed all of my belongings and said goodbye to Carlisle Castle for the last time. I returned my key to Mrs. Hawthorne, gave flowers to the staff, destroyed my student card and cafeteria pass, and threw out my cape. The finality of it frightened me to death. I was never going to live here again. I would visit, perhaps, but not often, and I certainly wouldn’t be roaming the hallways with confidence, like I had before. I had no desire to return as a teacher. The idea crippled me. I didn’t want to teach; I wanted to create.

Papa drove us to our house in Hampstead Heath, where I was going to live until I found my next gig. Like many artists, I still wasn’t opting for higher education. I had the tools I needed from my studies at Carlisle Prep, and I believed in autodidactism. I wanted to work at a gallery, perhaps snag an internship with someone creative and patient, if I had any luck.

Everything was in motion, yet life had a stale feeling—like trying to run underwater.

“Tell me three things: something good, something bad, and something you are looking forward to,” Papa requested in the midst of a traffic jam, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel of his vintage AC Ace/Cobra. I looked sideways, tapping the edge of the window. It was difficult to think about anything that wasn’t Vaughn. He drenched my thoughts, contaminating everything else I wanted to focus on.

“Something good? I’m excited for tomorrow. Something bad? I’m frightened about tomorrow, too. Something I look forward to…” I trailed off.

For Vaughn to come back.

But I knew that wouldn’t happen. He said he’d disappear after he killed Harry Fairhurst, that once he had blood on his hands, he wasn’t going to smear it on me or anything in my life. And he was a man of his word. I needed to come to terms with it. Although he was crazy if he thought I could truly move on with someone else.

“I’m looking forward to nothing,” I finished quietly.

Nothing really mattered that much anymore. A journey without Vaughn was not worth taking. I wanted him to challenge my every step, to keep me on my toes. To drive me mad. To give me his laughs, his thoughts, his blood.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to do things with my life. But the aftertaste of nothing, the one I’d felt every day the past couple weeks, was going to chase me to the grave. I knew that with depressing clarity.

Nothing was going to taste as good as those brownies and chocolate.

I should have known they weren’t divine because of some secret recipe—he’d sent them from different places, in different countries, even. They’d tasted divine because I knew, subconsciously, that they came from him.

Vaughn didn’t stop sending me chocolate and brownies after he left, but I stopped taking them into my room. Frankly, it was a relief to move somewhere he couldn’t send them anymore. He didn’t know my personal address.

“That saddens me to hear.” Papa clucked his tongue, his thumb brushing the steering wheel.

We’d had many intimate conversations since Arabella left. Her father had picked her up—I saw them from my window, hugging, shedding tears. I hoped he was in a better mental place, that he could be there for his daughters the way my father couldn’t after my mum passed away.

“I’ll get my groove back,” I lied, feeling an incredible urge to down a bottle of gin. I understood alcoholics now. Numbness was far superior to pain.

“I know you will.” He nodded and started talking about the weather.

I rested my head against my seat and closed my eyes, drifting.

I wore a black wool, one-shoulder bustier dress, which flowed down my body with tulle made of lace. It had been sent to me by Emilia LeBlanc-Spencer the evening before the exhibition in a special delivery, and it contained a note that made my fingers itch to call her and ask for the meaning behind the unexpected gift.

Lenora,

No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.

Aesop

Thank you for giving my son a home away from home. You broke down his walls, yet gave him shelter. I am forever in your debt.

Emilia LeBlanc-Spencer

Though I’d been in the same place as this woman several times over the years, we’d never been officially introduced. To me, she was a famous painter and Vaughn’s mother. I knew of her gallery in Los Angeles and had admired her art from afar (and her son from up close). Why had she reached out? Had Vaughn been in touch with her since he disappeared? Had he told her about me?

The idea filled me with foolish hope that maybe he was missing me, thinking about me. That perhaps he’d changed his mind after all. The morning sweets deliveries almost felt like a force of habit at this point. An apology, perhaps.

Maybe he’ll be at the exhibition. My mind raced into dangerous territory: hope.

The love declaration he’d made in his letter grew watered down by doubt with each passing day, but I had to admit, slipping into the dress Emilia had sent me felt like walking into his arms. I swore it had his scent.