“Yeah, kinda figured that when your ‘security team’ kidnapped me.”
“Did my men lay a hand on you?”
“They wouldn’t let me refuse the invitation, and they confiscated my phone. Call it what you will, Marion, this was a kidnapping.”
“You may call me Ms. Connolly.”
“No, thanks. You want respect. Show some. Now apparently you received one of the Costa paintings. I do apologize for that. Sincerely apologize. I’ve been dragged into something that doesn’t actually concern me, and to get the attention of another curse weaver, I’m being targeted with those paintings.”
“Is that your story, Kennedy?”
“Um, yes. What do you think? That I sent you a cursed painting? Here, have a lovely random work of art, as a peace offering. Ha-ha, it’s cursed.”
“Your speciality is jinxes, is it not?” She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “The joker’s jinx, I believe they call it? You’re a prankster.”
“You really do think I sent you that painting.” I shake my head. “Not my style. Even if it was, you’re hardly going to put that kitschy thing anyplace but the trash bin.”
“Do you even understand what you sent me, Kennedy?”
“I didn’t send anything, but if you mean do I know what it is? Yes. It’s one of a quartet infamous cursed paintings. Supposedly painted by a guy named Victor Costa, who says they came to him in a dream. He claimed they were inhabited by the ghosts of four children killed in a fire. In truth, the paintings are older than that and they’re cursed.”
“So you knew what you were sending. How dangerous it is.”
“I didn’t send anything. As you already know, Aiden bought one of the paintings—The Crying Girl. It was an investment that went wrong, and now someone is sending the other three out into the world. I presume it came in my name? A gift from me? It’s not. Ask your son.”
“I know that my son was duped into buying one of these paintings. Duped by you.”
I groan. “No, Marion. I was trying to buy it online. Aiden did before I knew what he was up to. You’ve clearly mistaken me for a gold-digger after your golden boy. I’m not. I’m a friend with no interest in . . .” I wave around the room. “Any of this.”
“Yet you let him buy that painting.”
“I didn’t—” I stop myself. There’s no point in arguing. She’s going to keep hammering away with her version of events. I just want to get this over and get out of here.
“Show me the painting,” I say. “I’ll uncurse it if I can or take it if I can’t.”
“We’ll get to the painting. Right now, I want to talk about my son.”
“Are we going to have an honest talk? Or one fueled by your delusions?”
Her mouth tightens.
“Look,” I say. “You’re concerned about Aiden.” I’m not convinced of that, but I need to keep this as non-confrontational as possible. I want to be able to honestly tell Connolly that I didn’t make things worse with his mother.
I continue, “Aiden is a great catch. One of the city’s premier bachelors. Handsome, brilliant, successful and, yes, rich. Out of my league. I fully acknowledge that, which is why we’re just friends. I’m sure you’ve had us followed. I’m sure you’ve hacked into our messages. If you have any proof that we’re more than friends, you’d show me.”
“Aiden isn’t the kind of fish one lands so quickly. You’re reeling him in. There is no romantic relationship yet, but not for lack of trying on your part.”
“You don’t know the first thing about me, Marion.”
She walks to the shelf and takes down a file folder. Well, I guess I walked into that one.
“You’ve done a background check,” I say. “Great. Show me where it says I’ve ever chased a guy for his money. Ever let a guy buy me more than dinner.”
She opens the folder slowly. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the drama. There’s nothing incriminating in my past. My boyfriends were all like me, middle-class guys scraping by. I have no criminal record. I have an excellent credit rating—my parents taught me to protect that—and my finances may not be in great shape, but they aren’t in bad shape either. I have a little bit in savings. Loans, yes, but I can cover them all and my shop is turning a profit. For a millennial, I’m swimming along nicely.
She takes her time leafing through the portfolio.
“Tell me about the capital you used to open your new shop, Kennedy.”
“An insurance claim. I opened the original shop with my inheritance, and after the break-in, the insurance reimbursed me for losses, which returned my original investment and allowed me to open the new shop. I actually saved a grand a month because of the lower overhead in Unstable. I invest that in an emergency fund.”
“An insurance claim . . .” She says. “This insurance claim?”
She passes me a page. I see the header of my old insurer and nod. Then I see the subject line.
Claim Denied.
I frown. “No, this is wrong. They paid out.”
“My son paid out. From his own pocket.”
“What? No.” I skim the page. It’s addressed to Connolly, who’d been acting as intermediary. The insurance company denied my claim for “delayed incident reporting.” When my shop was broken into, I hadn’t been able to report it right away—my sisters had been kidnapped, which was my priority. Connolly had handled that hiccup.
Not according to this.
I shake my head. “They paid.”
“Your bank records show a direct deposit. That deposit came from my son’s account.”
My stomach thuds.
What did you do, Aiden? Tell me this is a mistake.
I straighten and say, my tone as cool as hers, “As far as I know, I received an insurance payout. I have the documentation to support that. If anything else happened, I defy you to find proof that I knew it.”
The door opens. For a second, glancing over, I think it’s Connolly and my heart leaps. The man who walks in has his bearing, his stride, his height and build and red-gold hair. That’s where the resemblance ends. The man glances over with a face that reminds me of Rian’s, aged thirty years and skewed.
Cullan Connolly.
I don’t know much about Connolly’s father. Most of what Connolly says is either about his mother alone or his parents together. That could give the impression of a man who stands in his wife’s shadow, but the little I did hear suggested it was more a case of Cullan Connolly letting his wife handle the domestic side of the household so he didn’t need to bother with it. Connolly’s occasional comments had squashed any hope that he had a supportive and loving father. More like a largely absentee one happy to heap responsibility on his wife, expecting her to run the home and her share of the business.
When Cullan enters, he gives me a once-over, and there’s just enough objectification in it for me to tense. He’s not judging my clothing or my manners or my upbringing. He’s checking my appearance, as if that will surely explain his son’s interest. A flicker of disappointment tells me it doesn’t.
He nods to me and continues on to his desk. Marion Connolly waits, as if expecting he’s grabbing something before joining us. But he sits down and pops open a laptop and sets to work.