The Knight (Endgame #2)(58)

He must think better of it, because he pulls out a pocket knife and slits the cardboard. I cringe, not wanting the blade to touch the painting, but there’s some padding underneath. And Blue is very careful, I’ll give him that. Even from far away I can see his delicate handling of the piece.

From here all I can see is jewel tones in the paint, a champagne gold frame.

Excitement twists my stomach into knots. I force myself to stand still as Blue runs his hands along the sides and inspects the backing. If there’s even a speck of dust on that painting he’ll find it. That’s how carefully he covers every inch.

He takes his protection duties seriously, I’ll give him that much.

Helen of Troy has been represented in wildly different ways, from a dark seductress to an unwitting spoil of war. Her agency and motivations vary in every depiction, but one fact holds true. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. The ancient Greeks didn’t consider beauty to be in the eye of the beholder. It was an objective trait, the universal value of a woman. Helen was the definitive best, all others judged against her perfection.

Every story of my mother is both true and false. Even the one she told herself through her diary. Filled with hopes and desires and dreams. With love for a man who didn’t deserve it.

In the end all I have left is her beauty, immortalized in this painting.

Finally Blue stands back and nods to me. “It’s clear.”

I dash down the curving staircase, eager to see the painting that had once been so familiar to me. I haven’t seen it in months, aside from the photographs. They’re too dark to see details, too impersonal to feel her presence. Now I get to see the real thing.

Blue has replaced some of the brown packing paper over the painting, maybe in deference to the fact that he opened it. I pull the paper away.

And I’m looking in a mirror.

Not the kind made of glass, not the kind that frosts over in a bath. This is a mirror made of acrylics and canvas, color and shadows. A painting, but it’s not my mother. It’s me.

She and I look similar, but this painting is different. My eyes are a little wider, a little more innocent. My blonde hair falls around my shoulders instead of pulled up. I’m smiling instead of solemn. And I’m wearing a glittering pink dress I remember from my society days.

It’s definitely me.

Right on the canvas where my mother should be. My stomach drops for miles.

Horror. Dread. Anger that someone defiled my mother’s painting.

The frame looks the same, so that means they removed the old one and replaced it with this. Or maybe just painted right over, someone with skill and artistry and dark intent.

I look at Blue in shock, expecting to see some kind of reaction from him.

He looks at me with bemusement, unaware that the painting should be something else. He probably noticed it was me right at the beginning, but he assumed that it should be.

“Gabriel,” I whisper. I need you, Gabriel.

Blue’s gaze narrows, flicking to the painting and then back to my expression. Whatever he sees spurs him into action. He gets on the phone. “Get me Miller,” he says in curt tones.

Gabriel will come back, but I don’t know what he can do. He vanquished my father for stealing from him. Turned away Justin with a terrifying look. Even tore through a burning building. But he can’t find Jonathan Scott. He has roots in this city, dark and winding. Even Gabriel can’t penetrate them.

Someone killed my mother. And as I stare at my picture, I wonder if I’m next.

*





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Turn the page for an excerpt from Tough Love…





Excerpt from Tough Love





The moon sits high above the tree line. Somewhere beyond those woods is an electric fence. And beyond that is an entire city of people living and working and loving each other. I may as well be on the moon for how close I am to them.

A guard walks by my window at 10:05 p.m. Right on time.

I wait a few minutes until he’s out of earshot; then I flip the latch. From there it’s quick work to push up the pane with its bulletproof glass. I broke the lock a year ago. And almost every night since then I’ve sneaked down the ornate metal trellis—like a thief, stealing a moment to myself.