Shelter Me: A Shelter Novel (20 page)

I did understand, to a lesser degree, no doubt because of the memory loss—which kept me distracted, and curious enough to stop the complete descent into madness. "It's a hard gift to have," I admitted. "I worry that it will disappear if my memory comes back, but it would be a relief."

Creativity was an intense, brutal taskmaster and it could strip me of everything if I wasn't careful. I don't think Bane was careful. Maybe he couldn't be. Sometimes it was easier to give in to it than to fight it, and I wondered if I'd eventually succumb to that point. "So Lucas and Brayden both knew Bane too?"

"Yes," he confirmed. Maybe Bane's death was responsible for the tension between the two men. Before I could ask, Grant added, "I didn't meet Lucas until after Bane's death. And I met Brayden for the first time, unofficially, when you met Lucas at the gallery.”

“And even then, Brayden had no idea you were Bane’s brother.”

“Brayden didn’t know until tonight,” Grant confirmed. “Bane used to refer to me by a nickname to them. But I felt like I knew Brayden long before that,

through my brother's letters. He'd write me all the time." His smile was wistful. "I can't tell you the amounts of money I've been offered to publish them, but I never would."

I wanted to read them, because I was always jealous of someone's memories, their ability to recall them. I gathered them, inhaled them as if they could be mine if I tried hard enough. But Bane's would be far too raw and personal. "I'm so sorry—about my reaction. About your brother."

"Your reaction was justified." He motioned for another cup of coffee. "I've been up thinking about that damned speech for two nights. I'm running on fumes."

"I've been there."

"I know." He paused. "Bane was like that. He’d need to be slipped a sleeping pill when he'd been up for three nights and started painting clowns.”

“What’s wrong with clowns?”

“He hated them.”

I couldn't help but smile, because I'd been there. "For me, it was ponies. Like Rainbow Brite ponies. I called Brayden, convinced I'd come up with the next big thing. He drove to me at three in the morning and made me some special tea. I didn't wake up for days. Hey wait…"

Grant grinned. "He learned that from Lucas—they both used to do it for Bane."

I liked having something in common with Bane, if only to make Grant smile when they talked about him.

"He wasn't like you, Ryn. He wasn't strong."

I was going to argue that I wasn't either, but something stopped me. Maybe because deep down, I knew I'd be lying. "It's a hard gift to balance."

"Always was for him. He was too sensitive. Took everything to heart. I got it—there was no way he could paint like he did and not be, but I also knew there was no way he could stay that sensitive and survive this world." He shook his head. "I offered to buy him a place away from everyone and everything right before I came back home. But it was too late. He'd already let too much of the world in, despite how hard Lucas and Brayden both always tried to shield him from it, and that really fucked with Bane bad."

I’d always wanted to believe it was never too late, but looking into Grant’s eyes that night, I had to admit defeat.

T
urner was waiting
for me when the elevator opened. My apartment was down at the end of the hall but I didn't want him following me. I stood in front of him. "Why are you here?"

"You spoke to Grant."

"Yes. He told me how Bane died." I crossed my arms. "It doesn't sound like there's any way to hide what happened."

"Right. A suicide's always a suicide."

"He was troubled. Everyone who knew him said so."

Turner shook his head slowly. "You're really in deep with these guys. They got you drinking the Kool-Aid fast and furiously. Are they helping you find whoever's stalking you?"

I wouldn't share with him that I was sleepwalking and moving my own paintings. I wasn't making up the flowers, or the danger. "We're done. Anything further you need to say about the missing paintings can be done through Brayden's attorney."

"What about your family?" he asked. "Or lack thereof?"

"I have family."

"Right—the café owner and her husband who took in a seventeen-year-old foster kid out of the blue. That's not suspicious at all," he commented.

I fisted my hands tightly but resisted showing emotions. I'd been prepared for this, but still I couldn't get the damned words to come out of my mouth. He didn't look all that surprised and that's what got me talking. "You've done some digging on me, before I got involved with Lucas. Why was that necessary?"

"Because before the age of eighteen, your story reads like a couple of US Marshals decided to get creative. I can't ask if you're in witness protection and you can't answer…"

"I'm not."

"None of this is good, Miss
Taylor
." He stared at me. "Do you have any idea how Lucas makes his money?"

"I'm guessing you believe you know what Lucas does for a living." I crossed my arms. "What makes you think I don't?"

Turner narrowed his eyes, trying his best to be a human lie detector. He didn't realize that, most of the time, I was impenetrable. "He's told you he's in security. You believe him. And you're playing a really dangerous game. You're way out of your depth here."

"I'm just fine. Thanks for your concern." I went to move past him but he stopped me with his next words.

"Jared Connor is still missing."

I blinked and absorbed that information. "That's not my problem."

"It very much is. Have you considered what I told you about Lucas Caine? That he's a dangerous man? If you have, take it a step further, because who better to draw you in than the man who's stalking you."

The idea of that was horrifying, but I couldn't deny that Turner could be right. Not because I believed Lucas was capable of it, but because of my memory loss.

I didn't say anything though, but Turner continued, "Every time it happens, it pushes you closer to him."

Finally, I broke. "For what purpose? What gain?"

"He becomes obsessed with artists."

I was as obsessed with Lucas as he was with me, but I didn’t know Lucas’s relationship with Bane, not well enough to find truth in Turner’s words.
I wanted to tell him so but I refused to belabor his point. "Go. Now."

Turner began to comply, but not before pulling a folded manila envelope from inside his jacket. He handed it to me. "Read this if you want more truths. Otherwise, enjoy the Kool-Aid. You're not the first and you won't be the last."

* * *

I
wasn't surprised
that Lucas was waiting for me inside my apartment. He opened the door when I was about to put my keys in the lock. "Turner's gone?"

I glanced down the empty hallway. "Appears to be. Am I allowed inside my own place?"

Lucas moved aside, his expression troubled. He shut the door after me and I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes and turned to face him the way I would a battle. Because that's what this all was, what my life had been for literally as long as I could remember.

Memory was a funny thing, a picture blurred at the edges, a fuzzy snapshot that flashed by too quickly to capture, never mind process.

At least that's how it was for me…like a dream. All my memories were like dreams—I was never sure what was real or what wasn’t. Most of the time it didn't bother me…but nights like tonight, it was all I could think about.

"You moved your paintings again," he said.

"Really? That's what you want to lead with?"

He stood there like a wall in front of me, big and tall and strong and told me,
"You need to go. Leave New York before this work consumes you."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're sleepwalking."

"Trying to find my memories," I pointed out. "You know that."

"Someone's trying to push them out of you. And that someone might not have your best interests in mind," he reminded me.

"It doesn't matter. I can't go on like this."

"Yes, you can. You can keep doing your art and forget the things you might be better off not knowing," he said, and I blinked, because Lucas, of all people, knew how much I wanted—needed—those memories. I'd given up the idea of safety to do it, and in my mind, there was no turning back.

"I'm not leaving."

"You're letting this drive you crazy."

"I'm not Bane."

"No," he agreed with a wince. "But you're just as tortured."

It was my turn to wince. "How did he die?"

Lucas blanched. "He killed himself. Threw himself off a building in Florida before I could stop him."

God, his voice sounded so raw and troubled. "You can't…you're not responsible. You know you can't blame yourself."

"You can say it as many times as you'd like, but getting me to believe it?" He shook his head, looked at the ceiling and snorted a laugh with zero humor behind it. "Paint, Ryn. Live a quiet life. Sell your work but don't be a part of this scene."

"Your back. The tattoo…"

"He drew it on me. The day before he killed himself. Told me, 'It's you, man. The flame, looking for its fire.' He was like that. Impulsive. One minute you were talking to him and the next he was drawing on the closest available thing he could find."

"Your bare back was the closest thing?"

"We were on the roof, getting some sun. We lived in a warehouse, top floor. One of the perks."

"You lived with him?"

He nodded. "Three of us. Me, Bane. And Brayden."

The breath caught in my throat. I would deal with Brayden later. "And the tattoo?"

"After he died, I drank a bottle of scotch. Or three. And I went and had a tattoo artist make the backpiece permanent. Before the ink faded. And Bane, the night he died, he'd worked on the actual piece all night long. Finished it. And then he jumped." His last word was practically a growl.

Turner's words rang in my ears:
He becomes obsessed with artists.
"Did you pose for Bane?"

Lucas frowned. "Not like you're talking about. Not like I did with you. It was different with Bane. Everything was just different."

He looked pained. I wanted to let him off the hook, but I didn't. "How? How was it different?"

"You weren't there, Ryn."

"That's right."

"So let it go."

"I've done that too much. Way too much." After I'd spoken, he stared at me, then shook his head, and got up to leave. "That's your answer? To run?"

"I'm walking, not running."

Are you coming back?
That echoed in my mind but I refused to ask it. "You're bad for me."

"Really?" His voice was low, dangerous, and his stare was from a man I almost didn't recognize. "Is that how you feel?"

I couldn't back down now. "Yes."

"Then I won't bother you again." He was gone before I could breathe. Which was good, because that breath ended up being a sob. A deep, ugly one, followed by several more.

Hours later, I pulled myself off the floor, rinsed my face and began to paint. Even though the envelope taunted me the whole time, the urge to create was too strong to fight, and I'd done enough fighting that night.

Only when I'd finished, and the sun started to rise over Manhattan, did I grab the envelope and open it.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, a police report from Miami, Florida circa Bane's death.

His name was listed as Theodore Bane. For a minute, the introduction of Grant Loughlin echoed in my head, but I dismissed it. There were many different reasons—legitimate ones, ones with no suspicious motives—why brothers could have different last names.

It listed survivors as a brother and a father, whereabouts unknown for both. Apparent cause of death was listed as suicide. Motives were given, scrawled words like
depression, manic, drugs.

Bane had jumped off the building he'd lived in, off the same roof he'd been sitting on with Lucas just hours earlier, just before dawn. He dove off, headfirst from the roof of his own building onto concrete. Five stories high. The coroner concluded that death was instantaneous.

My body reacted, felt the impact of that statement with a deep shudder. I wanted to put the paper down, to believe everything Grant and Lucas had told me. I had no reason not to.

Still, I read farther.

In scrawled writing that was from the cop who'd been on scene, he stated that there was evidence that Bane was pushed, and that the case would be reviewed after the medical examiner inspected the body and the crime scene was gone over thoroughly.

It stated that the police had spoken with Bane a week earlier and he'd made statements that he believed someone was trying to kill him. In Bane's apartment, they'd discovered a note that he'd been supposed to meet with an insurance agent about his art that he'd believed had been stolen.

The insurance man's name was Dan Turner, and he'd confirmed the eight a.m. breakfast meeting that Bane would never attend.

I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath the entire time I'd been reading that section. I exhaled dizzily and finished with the final note on the page. A lone Post-it on the bottom with a handwritten sentence:

You wanted to know.