The Hearts We Sold(82)

Riley had flushed, but looked unmistakably pleased.

If Dee were being honest with herself, it was painful being with the two of them. Riley and Gremma were affectionate, comfortable around each other, and Dee’s chest ached every time she saw them kiss or hold hands.

The days dragged on, until one morning when Gremma was making scrambled eggs.

A loud knocking came at the front door.

“If it’s the neighbor boys asking to borrow a cup of vodka, tell them we’re out,” called Gremma.

There were other vacationers, of course. Notably, a house of college boys who seemed to show up every time Gremma wore a bikini to the beach.

Dee pulled the front door open and blinked.

It wasn’t a college boy.

It was a middle-aged man. Dressed in a suit.

Not a demon. There were lines around his eyes and gray in his hair. Definitely human.

Her heart began to pound. Lawyer, she thought. Undercover cop. Someone hired by her parents, someone to drag her home. But, no. She would not go, she wouldn’t—

“I’m looking for a Deirdre Moreno,” said the man.

Dee felt herself begin to tremble. “Who’s asking?”

The man smiled, not unkindly. “I’m a private investigator. I was hired a few months ago to deliver something to you—on this date, actually. I was supposed to find you and make sure you got this.”

He looked down and nudged a box with his foot. She hadn’t noticed it before, so focused was she on his suit and official demeanor. “Why?” she asked. “And by who?”

The man shrugged. “I’m just the messenger.” And then he was walking away, toward a car parked on the curb. Dee lingered in the doorway, eyeing the box with suspicion until Riley appeared behind her.

“Postman?” she asked.

“Private investigator,” replied Dee. “And a mysterious package.”

Riley tilted her head. Then she reached down and rattled the box. “Well, it’s not a bomb.”

“You can tell that from the noise?” Dee snorted.

Riley grinned up at her. “Actually, I could tell because it didn’t just explode.” Then she hefted the box into her arms and carried it into the dining room. “Yo, Gremma! Some man just delivered a mysterious package to Dee!”

“Cool.” Gremma came out of the kitchen, still wearing an apron that read KISS THE COOK.

“We should—” Dee began to say, but Gremma already had a very large kitchen knife in one hand. Once the box was open, Gremma dug into it and came out with a folder; Riley grunted and pulled out a boxed set of books; Dee found a slim manila envelope. She opened it and her fingers closed on the edge of a sheet of paper. It was expensive, thick, the kind used by artists, and her stomach fluttered. She knew this paper, had seen it in his hands many times.

She pulled a painting from the envelope.

It wasn’t large—perhaps the size of a normal, printed sheet of paper. But the style was different than she had ever seen. It was in watercolor, a medium Dee had never seen James use. It was lighter, more ephemeral, the brushstrokes were messier. It looked clumsier than James’s other paintings, but it was still beautiful.

The painting was of a girl. A girl with frizzy dark hair and brown skin. She was wearing a shirt with a private school pin, and she gazed out from the painting with steady, serious eyes.

Beneath the painting were two lines of cramped, familiar handwriting.

“Girl in Hospital Basement”

And beneath that, This is how I would have painted you if I hadn’t sold my heart.

Dee carefully set the painting down on the table and looked to Riley. Her throat was aching, too full, and she barely managed to say, “What are you holding?”

Riley was looking down at her own discovery in confusion. “A complete set of the Harry Potter books,” she said. “No idea why, though. I mean, who hasn’t read these?”

A laugh escaped Dee. She closed her eyes for a moment, drew herself together.

There was a knitted heart resting at the bottom of the box. It was worn, one edge knotted together. Dee forced herself to touch it, to stroke the soft yarn.

“What’d you find, Gremma?” asked Dee, if only to distract herself.

Gremma had a dark, semitransparent plastic sheet in her hand. She was holding it up to the light. “It’s a CT scan,” she said, squinting at it.

Well, that wasn’t what Dee had expected. She walked around the table, trying to get a better look. “Why would there be a CT scan?”

Gremma’s eyes flicked over the sheet. “Listen, I’m not an expert, but I think… well. It’s a brain tumor,” she said.

Dee felt the breath freeze in her lungs.

Gremma frowned. “I’ve seen stuff like this before in some of my medical textbooks.” She tilted the scan. “Notes on the bottom say it’s malignant.” Her mouth scrunched up in thought. “Based on my limited medical knowledge, I’d say this person would only have four to six months left.”

Dee looked down at the scan. Lancer, James.

Her gaze fell to the small painting, the one of herself. James had gotten two things out of the demon’s deal: art skill and a body frozen in the moment that his heart was taken.

She felt the words as they left her mouth. “Two years, actually.”