Nothing.
She stood outside the door and knocked. “Joel,” she said in a quieter voice, “you’re my brother.”
With her last word, she heard a sound. The sound of someone falling. And then…whimpering.
With every ounce of resolve she had left, Ashley twisted the doorknob. In the far dark corner lay a man in the fetal position, crying.
Ashley slowly made her way over and squatted next to him. With a soft touch, she ran her fingers through his hair. “Joel, it’s going to be okay. I promise to take care of you.”
Standing in the door with guns and flashlights drawn, Sin and Garcia assessed the situation. There was no one else in the room except for Joel and Ashley. There was no sign of George.
Sin spotted and lit a kerosene lamp. What luminesced took her breath away.
Scanning the room, she noticed a closet and eyed Garcia. He took the hint and checked it out.
Empty.
Garcia pulled the boards off the window and waved for Fletcher to join them.
Joel heard the other voices. The look in his eyes turned from puzzled to startled. “It’s not possible,” he breathed. He pointed to a small, battery operated television. “They just reported you dead. She made me kill you. You’re supposed to be dead.”
Sin grabbed a chair and walked over to where Joel and Ashley now sat. “Not everything is what it seems,” she said, “but you know that better than anyone, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” Sin pointed to the walls of the room. Walls that had been painted from floor to ceiling. Walls that had been painted by the real Miranda Stokler. “You painted everything in this room, didn’t you?”
He nodded carefully.
“You’re the artist, not Miranda,” Sin said.
Joel shook his head.
Sin spoke to Joel as if he was a child, “Joel, look at me and tell me the truth. Miranda didn’t paint any of her artwork, did she? It was always you. Even as a young boy…all the way back…it was you.”
Again, he shook his head. “I was the hand that moved the brush, but she was the artist. She was the one who taught me what to do, and she was the one who inspired the work. She is the artiste.” He dropped his head and stared at the floor. “I’m nothing.”
Ashley, who had been looking around the room admiring the artwork, seemed to have gone into her own little world. “It’s gorgeous,” she said. “It’s the best thing Miranda has ever painted.”
Suddenly, the reality of the conversation dawned on her. “Wait, are you telling me that you are the one who painted all of Miranda’s work?”
“That’s exactly what we’re saying,” Sin answered.
Ashley stared at Sin. “How did you know?”
“The painting in the trunk of your car. It had been painted recently.”
“How do you—”
“When I took it out of the trunk, it felt tacky and a tiny bit lodged under my nail. That, along with what you said about it being almost impossible to copy anyone’s stroke, led me to the truth.”
Sin then looked back at Joel. She leaned forward and looked in his eyes. He had the eyes of a lost soul—a tortured soul—but not the eyes of a killer.
“Joel, why did you kill those girls?”
He buried his head in his hands and started to rock back and forth. “I didn’t want to,” he said. His eyes traced the room. “I just wanted to make the ugly, beautiful, but she wouldn’t stop. She wouldn’t leave until I did what she said.” He looked at Ashley. “You know what it’s like—what she’s like. She forces you to do exactly what she wants, or she causes pain…so much pain.”
Ashley’s lips quivered with sadness.
“You’re talking about Miranda?” Sin said.
Joel nodded. “She said that I was just like my father; a killer. She said I was born to kill those girls. That was my destiny, my divine image.”
Knowing this conversation would take years of therapy to finish, Sin changed direction. “Joel, where is Miranda now?”
A look of intense fear flushed his expression. His eyes darted left and right, taking in the open door. “She’s everywhere,” he said. “She is in my head, in my room, my van—everywhere.”
Sin reached out and lightly ran her fingers over his forearm to try and comfort him. “Has she always been with you?”
“No,” he answered. “There was a time when she left, but she came back.”
“When did she leave?”
“After the accident.” He looked at Ashley. “The one where she died.”
Ashley nodded, not knowing what else to do.
“Where did you go after Miranda died?”
“I joined the Army.”
“I got a look at your record,” Sin interrupted. “Pretty impressive. What happened?”
Joel stared past Sin, as if he was trying to bring up a memory. “I finally found peace. I liked the military and I was good at my job.”
“But?”
His eyes darted at Sin and then again at the wall. “But she wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“Are you saying Miranda came to visit?”
“I told you, she’s everywhere. I was on leave one weekend. We heard a car accident outside the bar and walked out to see what happened. Next to our truck was a girl, unconscious, lying on the street. She’d been cut bad. The police said she’d been thrown through the windshield, but I knew it was Miranda.” His voice trailed off into mumbling.
Sin tried to keep him talking. “So you left with an honorary discharge and came back to Miami.”
Joel nodded.
“Was that when you painted this room?” Sin asked.
“Yes,” Joel said with a weak smile. “This was the ugliest place I knew; I wanted to make it beautiful.”
“Where is Miranda now?” Sin asked. “Is she still with you?”
“No.” Joel shook his head. “She left, but she’ll be back.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she always comes back.”
Ashley kneeled next to Joel and rubbed his back. “Joel, what happened to George? Is he still alive?”
“I don’t know.”
She turned him toward her and took his face in her hands.
