Damen lives in a private , secure housing estate, a fact that Riley apparently forgot to tell me. The huge ones
wrought iron gates and uniformed guards hardly representing
an obstacle, I imagine that this detail seemed incidental to him. That’s not likely to stop me either. I give my best smile to the employee.
Hello, my name is Megan Foster. I’m coming to see Jody Howard.
I watch her check her computer, where the name I come from
to give it, I know, is in third position on the screen. She hands me a yellow macaron bearing the words
“VISITOR” as well as the date.
Place this on your windshield, driver’s side, tells me-
she said. I remind you that it is prohibited to park on the left side of the street. Right side only.
She returns to her gatehouse, while I pass through the gate and enter the residence, hoping that she will not notice that I
passes Jody Howard’s street and heads towards Damen’s.
I have almost reached the top of the hill, where I reach
the next alley which appears on my list, and after a first turn to the left, then a second, I stop in front of Damen’s residence,
turns off the engine and realizes that I’m losing weight. I’m starting to tell myself that I’m dangerous
psychopath. What girl in her right mind would have the twisted idea of enlisting her dead sister’s help to spy on her boyfriend? On the other hand, since my life is anything but normal, I don’t see why my romantic relationships should be.
Sitting behind the wheel, I concentrate on my breathing to calm the disorderly beating of my heart. I have the
sweaty hands. And as I inspect the clean, perfectly ordered and posh decor, I realize that I could not have chosen a worse day for my expedition.
First, it’s nice and warm, which means everyone is outside, on bikes, walking the dog or tending the garden. THE
worst conditions for espionage, therefore. And as I was only
attentive to the journey, on the way there, I didn’t take the time to think about what I was going to do once there. In short, I don’t have a plan.
In reality, it doesn’t change much. What’s the worst that could happen to me than getting caught and reassuring Damen that I’m crazy? After my leech act
hysterical this morning, he must already be more than convinced of it. I get out of the car and head towards the house, at the bottom of a
dead end with tropical plants and manicured lawn. I don’t crawl or drag my feet or attract attention. I
I walk with studied nonchalance, as if I have every right to be there, until I find myself in front of the two heavy doors, racking my brain for the next step.
I take a step back, raise my head to examine the windows, shutters
closed, curtains drawn, and without having the slightest idea of what I’m doing, I hold my breath, ring the doorbell and wait.
After a few minutes, getting no response, I
rings a second time. Always nothing. So I turn the handle to make sure the door is securely closed, go back into the driveway, and, after checking that no neighbor is peeking inquisitively, I slip through the garden gate and reach the back. of the House.
I don’t stray too far, and I barely notice the swimming pool, the green plants and the magnificent waterfall to reach the bay window, duly locked, of course.
I’m about to retreat when I hear a
little voice in my head: the window, next to the sink. In fact, it is ajar, enough for me to slip my fingers in and
open it wide.
With my hands placed flat on the edge, I hoist myself inside,
wrist strength. The second my feet hit the ground, I
know that I have officially crossed the line.
I don’t have to continue. I do not have the right. I should go back out the way I came in and run back to my car.
Come home quickly while there is still time. But the little voice urges me to continue, and since it has guided me this far, I might as well see where it will take me.
I explore the large empty kitchen, the bare living room, the dining room devoid of table and chairs, the bathroom containing only a bar of soap and a black towel, thinking that Riley was right: this place is deserted in the point of seeming
abandoned and frankly worrying, without any personal objects, no photos or the slightest book. A dark parquet floor, white walls, empty cupboards, a fridge full of countless
bottles of this funny red liquid, and that’s it. As I enter the living room, I notice the flat screen my sister told me about, an armchair she forgot to mention, and a stack of DVDs
foreigners whose titles I don’t understand. I linger for a moment at the foot of the stairs, aware that I had better slip away, I have seen enough, but something, I don’t know what, pushes me to continue.
I grip the banister and flinch at the crunch of my steps on the stairs, like an indignant complaint resounding dully in this vast empty space. Arriving upstairs, I come across the door that Riley had found locked and which, this time, is ajar.
I tiptoe forward, calling for help from the little voice in my head to guide me. For all answer, I hear the
dull beat of my heart when I push the door with the flat of my hand, and let out a cry of amazement upon discovering a room so richly decorated, so majestic and so solemn that it feels like Versailles.
I remain petrified, not believing my eyes. Tapestries
woven with precious threads, antique rugs, crystal chandeliers, solid gold candlesticks, thick silk curtains, a stretched sofa
of velvet, a table with a marble top where stacks of
old volumes. Even the walls, between the paneling and the ceiling moldings, are decorated with large canvases in gilded frames –
all depicting Damen in costumes apparently dating from different eras, including a portrait where he is mounted on a
white stallion, a silver sword at his side, wearing the same jacket he wore on Halloween night.
I approach, looking for the hole in the shoulder, the place one
slightly worn, which Damen had jokingly assured me was from a gunshot. Astounded, I indeed discover it on the painting and touch it with my finger, as if bewitched, subjugated, wondering what bad, unhealthy joke Damen has indulged in, while my hand slides over the canvas to the small bronze plaque indicating:
“DAMEN AUGUSTE ESPOSITO, MAY 1775”
I examine the neighboring painting, and my heart races in front of a portrait of Damen, looking stern in a strict black suit on a blue background. I decipher the plate:
“DAMEN AUGUSTE PAINTED BY PABLO PICASSO IN 1902”
On the next one, thickly textured swirls of color create something that looks exactly like:
“DAMEN ESPOSITO PAINTED BY VINCENT VAN GOGH”
And it continues like this on the four walls where the portraits of Damen, executed by the greatest masters of painting, are displayed.
I collapse on the couch, wild-eyed, knees crumbling, brain in turmoil, contemplating thousands of explanations, each more preposterous than the last.
I mechanically grab the nearest book and open it to the flyleaf.
“For Damen Auguste Esposito”. Signed: “William Shakespeare”.
It slips from my hands, and I grab the next one: Wuthering Heights.
“For Damen Auguste”, signed by Emily Brontë.
All works are dedicated to Damen Auguste Esposito,
or Damen Auguste, or Damen simply – each by the hand of an author who has been dead for at least a hundred years.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply to calm the beating of my heart and the trembling of my hands, convinced that he
It’s a joke or something that Damen must be a history buff, an antique collector, or an extremely talented, slightly off-the-wall forger. Unless they are objects that have belonged to his family for generations, an heirloom left by his distant ancestors, all bearing the same name and looking alike.
But as I look around me, the truth
jumps out at me and makes my blood run cold: these are not trivial
antiques, nor an inheritance, but Damen’s personal effects, treasures amassed over the years.
With trembling legs, fighting against dizziness, I get up as best I can and go back down to the ground floor, impatient to leave this gloomy room, this kind of mausoleum, behind me.
hideous, overloaded and rococo, this crypt-like house. I want to escape as quickly as possible and never, ever set foot there again,
whatever the circumstances.
At the bottom of the stairs, I hear a high-pitched scream, followed by a long, muffled moan that seems to come from the end of the corridor. Without thinking, I rush in that direction, open a door and
discovers Damen on the ground, clothes torn and face bloody, lying on top of Haven who is struggling and moaning beneath him.
—Ever!
He leaps to his feet and lunges at me, while I kick, punch, and knee desperately try to
to reach Haven.
I notice his paleness, his wild eyes, and understand that there is not a minute to lose.
What did you do to him?
Ever, stop, he prays in a calm, very calm, explosive voice.
with the horrible circumstances we find ourselves in.
What did you do to him? I said, punching him.
I bite, I scratch, I put all my energy into it, but nothing works. He holds me with one hand and absorbs the shocks without flinching.
Ever, let me explain, he implores, dodging a kick.
Suddenly, seeing my friend bleeding profusely, her face contorted in pain, I realized something terrible: this is why he refused to let me accompany him!
No ! It’s not what you think. You’re wrong. I do not
I didn’t want you to see that, it’s true, but you’re on the wrong track. He lifts me from the ground, my legs dangling miserably as if I were a rag doll, without the slightest apparent effort despite my blows.
I don’t pay any attention to him or to me either. The only
The thing that matters is Haven, whose lips I notice are turning blue and whose breathing is getting weaker and weaker.
I stare at Damen with all the hatred I can muster:
What did you do to him? You’re going to tell me, you
sick ?
He almost begs me.
Ever, please listen to me!
And despite my anger and the rush of adrenaline rushing through my brain, I feel a languorous tingling at the contact of his hands and struggle with all my strength to ignore it. I scream and struggle, trying to kick him where it hurts, but he’s so fast I can’t reach him.
There’s nothing you can do for her, believe me. I’m the only one capable of helping him.
You’re not helping her, you’re killing her!
No, Ever, it’s the opposite, he murmurs, his features drawn and tired.
I try to free myself to no avail, he is too strong for me. So I stop struggling and let myself go, limp, with my eyes closed.
There you go, that’s how it happens, I’m going to die, I tell myself.
But the moment he releases his grip, I swing my foot
with all my strength, the tip of my shoe hits its target, and it drops me to the ground.
I rush to Haven and grab her covered wrist
of blood to feel for her pulse, his eyes fixed on the two small holes in the center of her tattoo, begging her to breathe, to hold on.
I reach for my cell phone to call for help when Damen appears behind my back.
I wanted to avoid it coming to that,” he sighs, snatching the phone from me.
