Page 27 of Phobia

Something was off about the display, and it wasn’t just because of what Katrina said.

Wagner had the artist’s curse of perfectionism. He wouldn’t model the Founding Fathers as a duo rather than a quintet unless it was on purpose.

Especially because the lineage of the Founding Fathers hadn’t died in the seventeenth century. Their family name lived on in this town, used as currency to get what they wanted, when they wanted it.

Rhys had snubbed their forefathers, and he wasn’t sparing any illusion that it was under the guise of "coming soon".

So why wasn’t anyone talking about it?

There wasn’t a drop sheet to thwart guests from looking at the pieces prematurely or a barricade to prevent them from entering the gallery room.

The muscles in my body tensed as I struggled to connect the dots with the information I had at my disposal. But then it hit me like a derailing train, sick understanding registering in my bones.

Hewantedpeople to see.

It was intentional. A silent statement disguised as art. A message.

Who was I kidding? It wasn’t a message at all. It was a warning, as sharp and ear piercing as a nuclear power plant meltdown.

I knew exactly who he directed it at. I’d bet my left nut that Vince could confirm it, too, if the asshole would deign to respond to my text message, that was.

My phone was burning a hole in my pocket as I left the house with Katrina’s car keys and my wallet in tow, making a run for it to her Jeep in the rain, my unanswered text to Vince ping-ponging in my head. I didn’t like it when Vince was quiet.

Quiet meant trouble. And trouble and Vince were dangerous in the same sentence.

What did you and Wagner talk about?

If there had been anyone who despised Rhys more than me, it was Vince. Their unaddressed rivalry went on for years. Their aesthetics shared similarities. Both looked and dressed like they’d walked off the set of a Tim Burton film. And for a time, they'd fucked the same girls—Vince out of spite, Rhys for good measure.

What ultimately separated them was Rhys executed quiet and broody perfectly, while Vince gave The Dobler-Dahmer Theory credence.

They didn’t like each other. Never had, never would. So what business did they have together? What would ever compel him to meet with Rhys one-on-one without me, Max, or Gabe present?

My brothers and I had our version of secrets, sure. Max pretended it didn’t bother him that his mother was a gold-digging whore who swapped husbands like their housekeepers changed bedsheets when her latest husband tired of her and her bullshit.

Gabe acted unaffected that his father was an abusive, overly religious zealot who hated him for reasons unknown.

Vince would never admit that his mother leaving him with his uncle had destroyed any chance of him growing up to be a half-decent human being. The mommy issues coupled by the gaping, festering abandonment wound, put him on the fast-track to becoming the future feature of a true crime podcast in the next five years tops.

There were some things among us that were unspoken but understood. We didn’t keep things from one another because you never knew when one of us had to finish what the other had started.

That was how our family operated.

The trip to the museum was less than an eight-minute drive, and I parked at the end of the one-way street, clambering out of the Jeep. Employees were pouring out of the museum, and I tugged my hood over my ball cap, keeping my head down low. Josie was still right where I’d seen her last, her head bent, her lips moving as she balanced her till.

The sky had cracked open on the way home earlier, sheets of rain pelting the earth, and my footfalls echoing against the wet pavement in the poorly lit alleyway. A flickering light illuminated a short set of metal steps leading to the back door, and I took them two at a time. The handle on the back of the museum door gave easily, the must and dust of the museum filling my sinuses when I stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind me. I didn’t want to alarm anyone I was in here. Darting down the narrow hallway, the thin carpet absorbed my strides. I was on a mission—get upstairs undetected.

The museum was eerily silent compared to the earlier thrum of music and revelry. I paused near the staff room, sloping forward and spotting what I assumed remained of the staff with their backs turned to me, deep in conversation. Timing their motions, I sprinted past the door quickly, dipping in the direction of the back of the museum.

I couldn’t chance taking the main stairs. If the rumors were true, there was a secondary set of stairs somewhere in here, likely constructed for servants to remain out of sight, hundreds of years ago.

I strode through the first corridor on my left. The old electrical wiring on the sconce lighting created a trembling effect in the bulb, casting shadows along the oak wood wainscoting. The hall stretched for what felt like forever, and when I came to the end of it, I spun on the ball of my foot, appraising the passage.

I’d missed something. The right side of the hall was an exterior wall, which meant if there was a staircase, it had to be on the left side. Ambulating at a zombie’s pace, I stretched my left arm out, applying pressure to the wall as I walked. The wainscotting glided under the calluses of my hands as I moved, nothing evidently amiss.

Shit. Did I have the wrong hallway? I considered the alternatives when the panel under my hand buckled and creaked unexpectedly, stilling me.

Bingo.