Page 8 of One Bad Knight

“Your parents would want this,” he added in a low voice, twisting the invisible knife that never left my gut.

“My gallery show is in two days. Do you think you’ll come?” I asked, changing the subject entirely.

My uncle released my hands and leaned back in his seat with a sigh, knowing I was desperately trying to worm my way out of this. “Send the information to my assistant, and I’ll make sure she arranges it.”

I’d already sent it to everyone twice, but I’d do it again.

Dave chose that moment to come back in and sit down, now done with his phone call.

“I’d love if my whole family showed up to the show,” I said, addressing my cousins too.

They exchanged a quick glance.

“Come on,” I said, sticking an elbow into Gabe’s ribs. “It’s my first show ever.”

“We are a family,” my uncle said, a warning lacing his tone.

“Sure,” Gabe mumbled.

“Yeah,” Dave agreed, though he looked like he’d rather give up his favorite golf club and switch to generic hair gel than come to my event.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding in. “Great. I’ll RSVP for you guys so you are already on the gallery’s guest list. And…” I slid out of my chair, picking up my bag while still gripping the apple tightly. “I’ll start on those applications for law school tonight.”

Fair was fair. Though the idea of living on the East Coast, far from my family, and studying law was a future painted in dull, lifeless grays.

A smile spread across my uncle’s face. “Excellent, Katherine. And of course, at your birthday party, I can introduce you to some friends who attended Harvard Law.”

“I never agreed to a party for me,” I shot over my shoulder as I walked out.

I’d been about to head out the door, when I realized I had forgotten my keys. I turned and raced back up the staircases to my bedroom.

It had drastically changed over the years, as I replaced toys with pieces of art that sang to my soul, usually strange pieces I’d find at flea markets, from artists on Instagram, or from sweet old men who spent their lives in Italy, painting the scenery.

But the one thing that never changed was the ceiling mural my mother had painted. I kissed my fingers and sent the kiss upward to the ceiling. “Hi mom,” I whispered out of habit.

Spotting my keys on the desk, I went to grab them. With the cool metal in my hand, I should have left, but I paused and looked out the French doors leading to my balcony. My gaze lingered on the massive tree outside. Big leaves already filled out the branches. My heart sped up as I started to get that familiar sensation.

I tried to tell myself it was my imagination. No one was watching me. When I looked outside, I sternly told myself there would be no presence of familiar serious, sharp eyes.

The fear and anticipation that the boy would come back always intensified in the days leading up to my birthday, but this year it was worse than ever.

Especially since the presence of demons had become public knowledge in the last year.

When I tried to tell people what happened that night, they said I was traumatized by finding my father murdered. I’d been told repeatedly it was emotional stress that had caused me to see such scary visions and imagine a boy who never showed up on the security cameras though I swore he’d been with me all week long. My uncle was unreachable at the time, so Child Protective Services decided I needed to be institutionalized. I’d been lumped in with kids who were self-harming, on drugs, from abusive homes. I just needed someone to listen to me, and no one would. I was so grateful when my uncle rescued me from that place, I never spoke of it again.

I shuddered, recalling those three weeks in a white room, drooling from the drugs, trapped with the nightmares in my mind. But now…

In the last year, I barely slept, thinking of that dark shadow in my father’s office. Demons were real. I’d seen video footage of monsters on the news and social media. Even though I saw the same reports every day of some horrible creature crashing a park, or leaving behind the barest trace of their victims.

But that night had been so long ago, I still wondered if maybe I had made it up. All those years ago, I’d felt like Wendy from the fairytalePeter Pan. Had the boy in the tree outside my bedroom asked me to follow him to Neverland, I wouldn’t have hesitated to put my hand in his and go wherever he wanted. But he’d left without me. Flown far away, leaving me to deal with blood, death, and nightmares all on my own.

I must have made him up. No real person could be so cruel.

My hand curled around the keys until the sharp edges bit into my fingers. I swore I could almost feelhispresence brushing against my skin, he felt so close. Heat crawled under my skin as the inevitable question popped up.

Would I want to see him again? The boy who may have murdered my father? The one who left me to deal with the fallout of what was the worst night of my life?

I turned and stomped out of the room. I was being ridiculous. He never came back, and he never would. Even if he hadn’t killed my father, he’d still left me there, all alone.