Chapter 4 - Vanessa Finally Hit Me
Vanessa had slapped me before.
Once when I was fourteen because I borrowed her sweater.
Once when I was nineteen because a boy she liked asked for my number.
Once at our mother’s funeral because I told her she was making the day about herself.
Each time, she apologized later by explaining why I had deserved it.
That was Vanessa’s gift.
She could turn violence into etiquette.
So when she walked into Marlowe House with two men behind her and told Mara to leave, I recognized the look in her eyes.
Not anger.
Entitlement.
Mara did not move.
“Diana is coming with me.”
Vanessa smiled.
“No.”
I stepped forward.
“Why did you break into my gallery?”
“I didn’t.”
“Someone did.”
“Maybe you should improve security.”
“Where’s Dad’s archive?”
Her smile changed.
Tiny.
There.
She knew.
Mara noticed too.
“Vanessa,” I said, “what did Dad know about Blue Mercy?”
She looked at me as though I were a child asking where babies came from.
“More than you.”
“Obviously.”
“Diana, go upstairs.”
“This is my gallery.”
“You work here.”
“I own forty percent.”
She blinked.
That surprised her.
Our father left the gallery sixty percent to our mother and forty to me. When Mom died, Vanessa assumed she inherited Mom’s share.
She had never read the trust.
“Mom’s shares went into a charitable trust,” I said. “I’m managing trustee.”
Her face hardened.
“You’re lying.”
“No.”
“Dad would never give you control.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The thing you actually believe.”
Mara murmured, “Diana.”
Too late.
Vanessa crossed the space between us and slapped me.
Hard.
My head snapped sideways.
The sound cracked through the gallery.
One of the men behind her looked away.
Mara stepped forward instantly.
I raised a hand.
“Don’t.”
Vanessa stared at me.
“You think because Carter looked at you for ten minutes you’re suddenly somebody?”
My cheek burned.
I tasted blood where my teeth caught the inside of my lip.
I looked back at her.
And something extraordinary happened.
I did not feel small.
Not this time.
I smiled.
Vanessa’s eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“That used to work.”
“What did?”
“Making me feel ashamed after you hit me.”
She stepped closer.
“You should be ashamed.”
“For what?”
“For everything.”
There was so much hatred in her voice that for a second I forgot to breathe.
“Name one thing.”
“You were born.”
The words came too quickly to be invented.
Silence.
Vanessa realized it too.
Her face changed.
I stared.
“What?”
She looked away.
“Nothing.”
“No. Say it again.”
“Diana—”
“Why did you say that?”
Mara’s phone buzzed.
She checked it.
“Carter is two minutes away.”
Vanessa’s men shifted.
Vanessa cursed.
Then grabbed my arm.
“Come upstairs.”
“No.”
She squeezed harder.
“Now.”
I pulled away.
She raised her hand again.
This time I caught her wrist.
Both of us froze.
Vanessa had spent our entire lives certain I would never stop her.
Neither of us knew what came after I did.
“Don’t touch me again,” I said.
Her eyes filled with something almost like grief.
Then one of the men shouted.
“Move!”
The gallery windows exploded.
Glass flew across the floor.
Mara threw me down behind the reception desk.
Gunshots cracked from outside.
Vanessa screamed.
Her men returned fire.
I covered my head.
Mara dragged me toward the storage hallway.
“Stay low.”
“What is happening?”
“Dominic.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Carter wouldn’t shoot through a room you’re in.”
That should not have been reassuring.
It was.
Someone crashed through the front door.
More shots.
Then a deeper voice.
“Enough!”
Carter.
The shooting stopped in uneven bursts.
Mara pushed me into the office hallway.
“Stay.”
I did not.
Of course I did not.
I crawled to the edge of the wall and looked.
Carter stood in the destroyed gallery with Leon and four men.
Vanessa was crouched behind a sculpture plinth.
Her two men were gone.
One had fled.
The other lay wounded near the door, alive and cursing.
Carter’s eyes found me immediately.
His face changed.
“Diana.”
“I’m fine.”
He crossed the room.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
He touched my face.
His thumb stopped beneath the red mark on my cheek.
“Who did this?”
I looked at Vanessa.
So did he.
Vanessa stood slowly.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
Carter’s entire body went still.
“You hit her?”
“Oh my God. It was a slap.”
He took one step toward her.
I caught his sleeve.
“No.”
He looked down at me.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t need you to punish my sister for me.”
Vanessa laughed.
“See? She still thinks she’s better than everyone.”
I released Carter.
“No,” I said. “I’m just done letting you decide who I am.”
Her mouth tightened.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Mara said, “Police.”
Vanessa looked toward the rear exit.
Carter saw.
“Don’t run.”
She looked at him.
“Are you going to stop me?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t.”
“Why?”
Vanessa smiled.
“Because I know where your mother is buried.”
The room went silent.
Carter’s face changed.
His mother had died when he was twelve.
Everyone knew that story.
A house fire.
No body recovered completely.
“What did you say?” he asked.
Vanessa’s voice softened.
“I know the fire wasn’t an accident.”
Carter stepped closer.
“You know nothing.”
“I know Dominic didn’t start it.”
That name again.
Carter stared.
Vanessa continued.
“And I know who did.”
“Who?”
She looked at me.
“My father.”
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
Vanessa smiled without warmth.
“Ask Diana why Dad kept Blue Mercy hidden for twenty years.”
“I didn’t know he did.”
“Of course you didn’t. Dad told you nothing because you were useless.”
I flinched.
Carter noticed.
Vanessa noticed too.
She smiled wider.
Then police lights flashed across the broken glass.
Mara whispered, “We need to move.”
Carter said, “Vanessa comes with us.”
Vanessa laughed.
“No, I don’t.”
A smoke canister rolled through the broken doorway.
White smoke exploded.
Everyone shouted.
Carter grabbed me.
Mara pulled her jacket over my face.
Somebody crashed into us.
I heard Vanessa screaming.
Then silence.
When the smoke cleared, Vanessa was gone.
So was the wounded man.
On the floor where she had been standing lay a small blue envelope.
My name was written across the front.
DIANA.
Inside was a photograph.
My father.
Carter’s mother.
Standing together.
Not casually.
Holding hands.
May you like
On the back, in my father’s handwriting:
IF MY DAUGHTERS EVER FIND THIS, TELL CARTER HIS MOTHER CHOSE THE WRONG MAN TOO.
