His passing had made the top page of the obituaries in The Times. Going without a funeral was nearly unheard of for someone of his stature. Hosting a visitation would be required, at the bare minimum.
I swallowed the ache that had been lodged in my throat for days—the same ache I’d been trying to dislodge with a hot cup of coffee and a stroll through the park on the way home from my mother’s apartment until Elis Brooks had happened.
A frown formed instantly when I thought of how his eyes had cut me up and down as if they held invisible swords. He’d been vicious, not that I should have been surprised.
What had surprised me was that he was the Vigilante Artist, a silly name Page Six had taken to calling him. The coffee shop idiots in Brooklyn had already made a Warhol-inspired poster of one of the first works of graffiti attributed to him—a giant silver ring, easily two stories tall, and where the sparkling diamond would usually be nestled, a smiling poop emoji sat in its place.
The worst part?
He’d painted his sparkling poop emoji ring on the front side of the white wall of Tiffany’s.
TheTiffany’s.
He’d caused quite a scene the next morning. I remembered seeing the local news crews when I’d walked by that morning to meet my dad for one of his radiation sessions. He’d cracked a smile when I’d told him I’d seen the ridiculous piece of street art firsthand, and then he’d dozed off in his chair, tubes and wires attached to him in every direction.
I’d had to laugh then, or I’d cry.
Pretty much the same way I felt now.
I flopped back on my pillow, watching the silver moonlight chase the dark shadow from the corners of my room. Sighing, I rolled over, salty tears wetting my pillow.
I missed my dad so much, mostly because he was the only one in my family who’d ever understood me—maybe the only person who ever would.
Before I could cry any more tears, I rolled back out of bed, swiped my phone off the table, and headed for the bathtub. I may not get any sleep the night before my father’s visitation, but I could at least soak in the bathtub and relax with some friendly online stalking.
I had Elis Brooks on my mind.
Chapter 3
Elis
The entire walk home, my fists were clenched to my sides, and the cool air did nothing to alleviate the hot rage pumping in my veins.
It’d been five years since I’d last seen her. She still looked as beautiful and just as shallow. Devlynn Price, the poster girl for the perfect-looking New York City socialite. Queen Fucking Bee. I hated her and everything her world stood for, but I also couldn’t shake her.
The familiar subway stench assaulted my senses as I sat in the empty car. Not too long ago, I’d had a limo and a driver taking me where I wanted, when I wanted. At one time, I was what I hated most in the world, but those days were gone.
The subway ride wasn’t long, and I was home in thirty minutes. Good old Brooklyn.
I turned the key to our two-story brownstone, walking quietly not to wake up my mother or sister. My sister, Sarena, hadn’t gotten used to our new way of living. She’d started taking jobs watching rich old men’s homes or their bratty kids. She would end up with some old man, a trophy wife on his arm, spending his fortune and chasing something she’d always longed for: status.
My mom started working five years ago after it all happened. She mourned my dad for all of ten seconds, picked herself up, and moved us out of our twenty-million-dollar apartment into the brownstone. The brownstone was at least ours, the one respite. After all was said and done, there was enough money left over to buy this place free and clear.
I hated her for it then, but now…now I understood. That life was poison, taking everything from her, and she didn’t want it to win. Sarena didn’t understand the decision, but I knew it had saved me. I saw those guys who were my best friends, slaves to the almighty dollar. Thinking the way they were told to, dating the right girl, and joining the right organizations. They were machines, robots mindlessly roaming the earth until they died in a pool of their wealth. I didn’t want anything to do with any of it.
“Where have you been?” my mother spoke softly from the corner of the dark living room.
She turned on the lamp beside the old leather wingback. I could still see the black circles under her eyes in the darkness—proof of how tired she was, even though she constantly denied it. I hated how she worked herself to the bone, but I also understood that principles couldn’t be bought. She was a daily reminder of the mess my piece of shit father made.
“I was out with some friends. Studying.”
She nodded as she got up and walked toward me, placing her palm on my face. “You’re such a good man. Nothing like him.”
The aftertaste of my lie twisted in my mouth. I hated lying to her, but I knew she would worry if she knew the truth.
She grabbed me in an embrace, her arms light and airy. “You and your sister are the only good thing that came out of that old life. My angels.” She sounded off, but I chalked it up to maybe too many nightcaps while she waited for me to come home.
“I love you too, Mom.” I kissed her frail, withered cheek. “Go to bed,” I ordered, adding, “Please.”