“When I…” I pause and clear my throat. “When I was in rehab, I had trouble with my hands. Basic things, like holding a pen and knotting a tie. They wanted me to try using my camera, hoping the muscle memory would kick in. But I couldn’t even take it out of the case. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to take another picture again.”
Her eyes are watchful. She rubs her thumb unconsciously over the camera casing.
“In the cell where I was imprisoned, there was one small, high window that hadn’t been boarded up,” I continue. “When I looked through it at the right angle, I could see a small part of the sky. At night, sometimes a few stars were visible. They reminded me the world still existed. Earth was still rotating. People were living, hoping, dreaming. There was still good out there.
“Almost two years later, I was in a room at the rehab clinic. One night, I looked out the window at the stars. Thousands of them, all bright and perfect. I thought they might have been the same ones I’d seen from my cell, but now I could see constellations and comets. I could see the whole sky. That was when I made a vow that I’d use my camera again one day. And when I did…the first photo I took would be of something good.”
Nell holds my gaze. For the first time, she seems older, wiser. Like she knows the secrets of the universe. Like she knows my secrets.
She pulls the camera bag toward her. Slowly, she releases the lens and twists it off the mount, then places both the lens and the body back into the bag. She stands and extends her hand. “Come with me.”
Though I want to take her hand—I can already feel her fingers closing around mine—I turn away to zip up the camera bag.
Nell drops her hand to her side and steps toward the door. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“I want to show you something.”
I half expect her to head for the front door. Instead she starts up the stairs. I follow. The door to Henry’s room at the end of the hall is closed. Nell continues walking to the third floor. I come to a halt at the bottom of the staircase.
She doesn’t turn to see if I’m following, but opens her bedroom door and goes inside. Curiosity—and probably self-destruction—pushes me up the stairs. I stop in the doorway.
I let my gaze roam the spare furnishings—bed with a rumpled, striped comforter, shelves filled with books, a desk organized with school supplies and books. A drafting table scattered with drawings, pencils, paint.
Nell stops in the middle of the room and points to the wall opposite the bed.
I walk in a few steps to see what she’s pointing at. It’s a framed print of Van Gogh’s The Starry Night—bright yellow stars swirling chaotically over the darkened sky, with the sleepy little village nestled in the valley below.
“You’ve probably seen the original, haven’t you?” she asks.
I nod. Many times.
“I haven’t.” A wistful note enters her voice. “But it’s always been one of my favorite paintings. Well, maybe not always. I studied it in a social studies unit when I was in seventh grade. We learned that Van Gogh painted it when he was in a lunatic asylum in Saint-Rémy. Art historians have identified it as the view from his room, except for the village. He painted something like twenty versions of it at different times of the day, but this is the only nocturne version. I always thought he didn’t paint another view at night because he was too busy just looking at the stars.”
A tightness spreads down my spine. I don’t like where this is going. I don’t want to feel any more connected to this girl. I can’t.
But I know what she’s going to say. I could have said it myself.
“When I was at Harbor View, I asked my father to bring me a poster of The Starry Night.” She spreads her hand in a circle in front of the print. “I hung it across from my bed so it would be the last thing I saw before going to sleep and the first thing I saw when I woke. But every night before I went to bed, I first looked out the window and searched for real stars.”
Turning, she opens a desk drawer and rummages through a stack of notebooks. She hands me a thin, black sketchbook with a worn cover. Though I already know what’s inside, I open it. The pages are filled with drawings of starry nights—all cascading over a landscape of low hills cut through by a narrow road and dotted with three isolated houses.
Pressure collects in my chest. “Did you draw the view at different hours of the day?”
She shakes her head. “Only nocturnes. At Harbor View, nighttime was the only time I didn’t feel like I was being watched and monitored.”
The only time I hadn’t felt the constant presence of my captors was when I caught a glimpse of the stars.
“I sometimes go outside to look at them.” She gestures to the attic window facing the back garden. “There’s a spot on the roof where no one can see me, but I can see the whole sky.”
I grip her notebook tighter. I have to get out of here.
“When you first came here, I thought you were a stranger.” Nell folds her arms around her chest, like she’s hugging herself. “I didn’t recognize you anymore. I didn’t know all the ways you’d changed from the Uncle Darius I once knew and loved. I also thought you probably didn’t recognize me either. But now…”
She pauses, her gaze steady on me. “I feel like I recognize you more than I’ve ever recognized anyone in my life. I know you more than I’ll ever know anyone.”
I can’t speak. My skin is tight, like it can’t contain the hot, roiling confessions I don’t want to acknowledge.
She moves closer to my side, looking at the notebook I’m still holding open. The air itself seems to soften, like it’s making room for her. She’s close enough that I can smell her—the underlying scent of cinnamon that not even the smoke and sweat from the party can mask. She takes the notebook from me. Her breasts brush against my arm.
Something inside me snaps, like a tree branch cracking off in a storm.
I grab her wrist and yank her closer. Her eyes widen.
“You don’t know me.” My voice is thick and raw. “I’m more fucked up than you can imagine. So whatever little fantasy you have going on in your head, get rid of it right now. A sane man doesn’t touch a girl half his age and pretend like it didn’t matter. A good man would never think all the ugly, depraved things I’m starting to think about you. A man with any shred of decency would have more self-control than I do. Protect yourself, Nell. Stay the hell away from me before I do something horrible to you.”
She stares at me. Her pulse races under my fingers. I’m gripping her wrist so tightly she’ll have bruises.
“I’m not scared of you,” she whispers.
“You should be.”
“No.” She darts her tongue out to lick her lips. “Nothing you do to me could ever be horrible. Nothing. Do you know why? Because I know you. And even if you refuse to admit it, you know me too. You’re the only person in the world who does.”
Forcing my fingers to unclench, I shove myself away from her. My breath is fast, my heart hammering.
A door clicks at the bottom of the stairs. The sound hits me like a bullet.
Turning away from Nell, I leave the room and stalk down the stairs. If Henry catches me leaving his daughter’s bedroom, so much the better. I’m doing a shitty job of protecting her from me, and she won’t protect herself—but her mild-mannered father would breathe fire if he sensed she was in danger.