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Vivian, Natalie, Allison.
In that order.
It was far different from my later efforts. Rough and childish and awful. The girls in the painting bore no resemblance to theirreal-life counterparts. They were black squiggles protruding from triangular dresses. But I knew who they were, which was enough to help me heal.
Six months later, I was released, although I still had to take an antipsychotic and go to therapy once a week. The meds lasted another five years. The therapy continues to this day. It helps, although not as much as the sessions at the mental hospital with the kind, infinitely patient Dr. Shively. On my last day there, she presented me with a charm bracelet. Dangling from it were three delicate birds.
Consider it a talisman,she said as she clasped it around my wrist.Never underestimate the power of positive thinking. If you ever experience another hallucination, I want you to touch this bracelet and tell yourself that what you’re seeing isn’t real, that it has no power over you, that you’re stronger than everyone realizes.
Instead of returning to my old prep school, my parents sent me to the nearest public one. I made friends. I got serious about art. I started to thrive.
I never saw the girls again.
Except in my paintings.
I had thought that information was private. That it was my secret to bear. Yet somehow Franny was able to find out. I’m not surprised. I suppose her kind of money can open a lot of doors. Now she and Theo stare at me, curiosity dancing in their eyes, likely wondering if I’m capable of snapping at any moment.
“It was a long time ago,” I say.
“Of course it was,” Theo says.
Franny adds, “The last thing we want is for you to feel ostracized or punished in any way. Which is why we should have told you about the camera in the first place.”
I have no idea what they want me to say. That all is forgiven? That it’s perfectly acceptable to be spied on because of something I experienced when I was still in high school?
“I understand,” I say, my voice clipped. “It’s better to be safe than sorry. After all, we don’t want another mess on our hands, do we?”
I excuse myself from the table and make my escape between two of the statues. Both seem to stare at me as I depart, their blank eyes seeing nothing but knowing everything.
—
Theo follows me into the woods. His footsteps shush through the underbrush behind me, faster than my own, more familiar with the terrain. I quicken my pace, despite already knowing he’ll catch up to me. I just want to make him work for it. I veer left without warning, trying to outmaneuver him. Cutting across untrampled forest floor. When Theo follows suit, I do it again, this time zigging farther to the left.
He calls out to me. “Emma, don’t be mad.”
I make another sharp veer, heading off in a new direction. This time, my right foot gets caught on a tree root curving out of the ground. I trip and take a series of increasingly faltering steps, trying to right myself before succumbing to the inevitable fall.
The only thing I end up hurting is my pride. I land on my hands and knees, the blow cushioned by the leaves coating the soft, mossy earth. Getting to my feet, I see I’m in another clearing. One not as neatly maintained as the sculpture garden. It’s darker, wilder, on the cusp of again becoming one with the forest.
I rotate slowly, looking around, trying to get my bearings.
That’s when I notice the sundial.
It sits in the center of the clearing—a copper circle atop a tilted column of marble. Time has turned the copper a light blue, which makes the Roman numerals and compass rose etched into the surface stand out even more. The center of the dial bears a motto, written in Latin.
Omnes vulnerant; ultima necat.
I remember the phrase from high school Latin class, although not because I excelled at the language. In fact, I was terrible at it. I remember only because it sent a chill through me when I first learned what it meant.
All hours wound; the last one kills.
I touch the sundial, running my fingers over the words as Theo finally catches up to me. He emerges through the trees, slightly out of breath, his hair mussed by the chase.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” I say.
“Listen, you have every right to be angry. We should have just told you what we were doing. We completely handled it the wrong way.”
“That we can agree on.”