Page 55 of Married in Michigan

A shrug, interestingly. “It’s a technical process I know nothing about. Chemical testing, like carbon dating, sort of? I’m not an art history major, I just like cool shit.” He indicates the painting. “I couldn’t tell you much about Vermeer or his paintings, I just know the story behind van Meegeren because I own the painting.” Another laugh. “I don’t want you to get the idea that I’m some beret-wearing art history dork.”

I bite my lower lip. “Oh no. Can’t have that. It would ruin your rep as the coolest guy in school.”

He eyes me. “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”

I widen my eyes, shake my head. “Why no, Mr. deBraun, I wouldneverdo that.”

He walks away, laughing. “Sure you wouldn’t. I see how it is. See if I tell you any more cool stories about the cool shit I own.” He indicates another painting on the wall in the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “Figure that one out on your own.”

With that, he vanishes into his bedroom and closes the door behind himself.

I, of course, go to the indicated work of art and examine it. It’s small, a charcoal portrait sketch. In the lower left-hand corner is a barely legible signature which looks, to my decidedly inexpert eye, like M.M. Caravaggio. Another famous name I’ve heard here and there, but know zero about.

I sigh, and decide there’s no way I’m asking him about it now. I’ll get another art history lesson for sure.

Right?

Why should I care?

Apart from the fact that I definitely saw nothing compelling about the spark in his eye and the confidence in his voice as he speaks, nothing interesting about the way he continually surprises me. I mean, I had him pegged as an air-headed spoiled rich white boy. Smart enough, sure, because you don’t get through an Ivy League education by being stupid, and he is capable, sure, because heisan elected member of Congress. But still, Paxton deBraun is a spoiled rich white boy, and little else.

So what if he collects interesting art with a unique story? So what if evidence points to him playing the piano? Why should I care? All I’m here for is the chance to get Mom taken care of.

That’s all this is. It’s a long game. Not a con, just…

I push that line of thinking aside and decide to pick my room; interesting, though, that he’s assuming I’ll want to sleep alone, in my own room.

I did at least half assume that he’d expect me to sleep with him, to share a bed with him.

His reassurances to the contrary are…comforting, to at least some degree.

The two guest rooms are identical, for the most part—different art on the walls, different beds and furniture, but mostly alike. Lots of light colors, white walls and ceiling, with pops of color here and there—the overall aesthetic of the guest rooms is neither masculine nor feminine, just neutrally appealing.

I pick one simply because I like the artwork better: another black and white landscape photograph of a beach, and an oil on canvas painting of a mermaid sitting on a pile of coins and treasure, combing long reddish hair, rocks framing the crashing sea in the background. Another piece of art by a famous painter, probably, but I’m ignorant of who or what—I just think it’s pretty, and it reminds of the ocean, something I’ve never seen but have always wanted to visit. There’s an en suite bathroom of course; marble floor, a marble-lined shower stall with a glass door, a claw-foot soaking tub, a pedestal vanity with a waterfall faucet and a lovely, delicate, gold-gilt oval mirror.

When I go back into my room after examining the bathroom, I find my duffel bag on the bed, which is freaky as fuck. I heard nothing, and as far as I know, Liam isn’t here.

I find Paxton in his office, and knock on the doorframe; he’s sitting at his desk, working on a laptop, wearing glasses with a dark frame on top, which somehow makes him look distinguished and intelligent rather than nerdy.

He looks up, nudging the glasses higher on his nose. “Yes?”

“I think your shit is haunted, Paxton.”

He frowns while chuckling. “Why do you say that?”

“I picked a room, went to look around the bathroom, and while I was in there, my bag mysteriously appeared on the bed.”

Paxton rolls his eyes, rubbing his forehead with a knuckle. “That’s Liam’s idea of a practical joke.” He tilts his head up, shouting. “LIAM!”

A few moments later, I jump when I feel Liam brush past me. “You bellowed, Mr. deBraun?”

“No more of the spooky shit, okay?” Paxton turns his attention back to the computer screen; we’re both clearly dismissed.

Preceding me out into the foyer, Liam snickers, turning to grin at me with a wink. “Gotcha.”

“If by get me, you mean freak the shit out of me, then yes.” I arch an eyebrow at him. “Do you have spy cameras or something?”

He shrugs, endeavoring to look innocent. “Certainly not. This is Mr. deBraun’s private home.”