down her cheek. “Well. Now you do.”
I helped Lucy upstairs and laid her down in bed. I stayed with her as she rested, tending to her bruises with ice wrapped in dish towels. Against my strong advice, she refused to see a doctor, insisting that nothing was broken. “He hits me hard enough to bruise, not break,” she said.
For a while Lucy drifted in and out of consciousness, frequently moaning, occasionally sighing when I sprinkled her forehead with kisses. Whenever she opened her eyes and saw me, she smiled. It was enough to make my heart soar.
After a couple of hours she fell into a deeper sleep. I wandered around the spacious master bedroom, grunting distastefully at the opulent furnishings, the full-sized spa and sauna in the en-suite bathroom, and the ornately-framed portrait of Sterling Piper hanging above a mahogany dresser.
It was the first time I’d set eyes on my nemesis.
At first glance, Sterling appeared to be a classically handsome man in his fifties. Straight-backed and broad shouldered, he had a thick head of peppery grey hair, clear blue eyes, and a healthy glow to his cheeks. I wanted to imagine him weaker, more pathetic, but there he was, a picture of relative virility. Not only that, in his finely-cut navy suit, he looked almost noble.
It was only on closer inspection that I detected the monster lurking beneath. The slight squint in his left eye, the way his lips pulled tightly over his teeth, like he’d been struggling to contain his impatience with the photographer, and the artifice of his military-style posturing. He was a construction magnate, not a fucking decorated war hero.
I thought it curious that there were no pictures of his kids around, but when I began pulling open drawers in the dresser, I found a couple of loose photos among Sterling’s collection of cufflinks and loose change .
The first photo was of a twentysomething Sterling standing next to a pretty girl with long auburn hair. She had a well-fed baby in her arms. Sterling’s head was held high, chest puffed out, immensely proud of his young wife and pudgy heir. Yet something seemed a little off about the smiling couple. There was a coldness between them. Would it have hurt Sterling to put an arm around his wife?
The second photo was a framed family portrait. Sterling was seated at the center – his hair flecked with grey, a touch looser around the chin, but still looking extremely pleased with himself. Standing next to him was a pudgy boy of six or seven – I assumed the baby from the first photo. They’d dressed him in a mini version of his father’s suit, and the kid’s smarmy smile suggested he actually enjoyed dressing like a young Republican. Sitting cross-legged at the front was a girl of four or five. She had shiny brown hair, owlish glasses, and a very adult expression. The sort of girl who couldn’t wait to start getting homework assignments.
But the big surprise was Sterling’s wife. Seated on her husband’s left, with another baby perched on her knee, she looked shell-shocked, as if she’d wandered into the wrong photograph. She’d lost a lot of weight, and her long hair had grown hard and frizzy, like an old woman’s, even though she couldn’t have been long past thirty. Being a mother clearly hadn’t agreed with her.
Lucy had mentioned that Sterling’s first wife suffered from depression. Judging by the change in her appearance between having her first and third children, the illness had come on hard and fast.
Then the penny dropped.
Sterling must’ve beaten her, too. Smacked her around until there was no light left in her eyes.
And now he was working on Lucy.
She was still dozing when the early afternoon sun swung around and soaked the front bedroom in pale yellow light. I moved to close the drapes, but Lucy stopped me, suddenly lucid.
“Don’t, Johnny. Leave them open.”
She was propped up in bed, smiling like a contented pussycat. The sunlight was falling on her face and
I helped Lucy upstairs and laid her down in bed. I stayed with her as she rested, tending to her bruises with ice wrapped in dish towels. Against my strong advice, she refused to see a doctor, insisting that nothing was broken. “He hits me hard enough to bruise, not break,” she said.
For a while Lucy drifted in and out of consciousness, frequently moaning, occasionally sighing when I sprinkled her forehead with kisses. Whenever she opened her eyes and saw me, she smiled. It was enough to make my heart soar.
After a couple of hours she fell into a deeper sleep. I wandered around the spacious master bedroom, grunting distastefully at the opulent furnishings, the full-sized spa and sauna in the en-suite bathroom, and the ornately-framed portrait of Sterling Piper hanging above a mahogany dresser.
It was the first time I’d set eyes on my nemesis.
At first glance, Sterling appeared to be a classically handsome man in his fifties. Straight-backed and broad shouldered, he had a thick head of peppery grey hair, clear blue eyes, and a healthy glow to his cheeks. I wanted to imagine him weaker, more pathetic, but there he was, a picture of relative virility. Not only that, in his finely-cut navy suit, he looked almost noble.
It was only on closer inspection that I detected the monster lurking beneath. The slight squint in his left eye, the way his lips pulled tightly over his teeth, like he’d been struggling to contain his impatience with the photographer, and the artifice of his military-style posturing. He was a construction magnate, not a fucking decorated war hero.
I thought it curious that there were no pictures of his kids around, but when I began pulling open drawers in the dresser, I found a couple of loose photos among Sterling’s collection of cufflinks and loose change .
The first photo was of a twentysomething Sterling standing next to a pretty girl with long auburn hair. She had a well-fed baby in her arms. Sterling’s head was held high, chest puffed out, immensely proud of his young wife and pudgy heir. Yet something seemed a little off about the smiling couple. There was a coldness between them. Would it have hurt Sterling to put an arm around his wife?
The second photo was a framed family portrait. Sterling was seated at the center – his hair flecked with grey, a touch looser around the chin, but still looking extremely pleased with himself. Standing next to him was a pudgy boy of six or seven – I assumed the baby from the first photo. They’d dressed him in a mini version of his father’s suit, and the kid’s smarmy smile suggested he actually enjoyed dressing like a young Republican. Sitting cross-legged at the front was a girl of four or five. She had shiny brown hair, owlish glasses, and a very adult expression. The sort of girl who couldn’t wait to start getting homework assignments.
But the big surprise was Sterling’s wife. Seated on her husband’s left, with another baby perched on her knee, she looked shell-shocked, as if she’d wandered into the wrong photograph. She’d lost a lot of weight, and her long hair had grown hard and frizzy, like an old woman’s, even though she couldn’t have been long past thirty. Being a mother clearly hadn’t agreed with her.
Lucy had mentioned that Sterling’s first wife suffered from depression. Judging by the change in her appearance between having her first and third children, the illness had come on hard and fast.
Then the penny dropped.
Sterling must’ve beaten her, too. Smacked her around until there was no light left in her eyes.
And now he was working on Lucy.
She was still dozing when the early afternoon sun swung around and soaked the front bedroom in pale yellow light. I moved to close the drapes, but Lucy stopped me, suddenly lucid.
“Don’t, Johnny. Leave them open.”
She was propped up in bed, smiling like a contented pussycat. The sunlight was falling on her face and
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