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2025-05-07 06:31:54
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The Vision She Hid 15
The night had one of those perfumes you couldn’t bottle without setting the lab on fire—honeysuckle and gun oil, smoke of fireplace from a distant memory, and that heavy, private scent of men who make decisions no enemy survives.I wandered out onto the terrace like a ghost who forgot what she was haunting, hand trailing along the edge of the doorway, eyes soft and vacant. The kind of blind that made people lean in just a little too close, convinced they were safe from being seen.He was standing by the balustrade, back turned to the world, which was probably lucky for the world. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette. The smoke curled around him like an old dog on a sofa. His silhouette carved into the moonlight—smooth clean lines but with perfectly brutal edges. Elky Jennings had a kind of posture that made one think of executioners and saints, and wonder which side of the aisle he preferred to stand on.“You sleep like a soldier,” I said softly, letting my voice rust
The Vision She Hid 14
We hosted a cocktail party that evening. The grand salon was dipped in candlelight and expensive booze. It was a huge space with a lot of stucco, Regency style, with lots of crystal chandeliers in heavily molded ceiling and lavish date palms in every corner. The entrance was down the marble steps from my bedroom, through an arched doorway in-between plaster columns.A doorman offered me a glass of Champaign at the door and I went in supported by Marta. The salon was not quite as big as a football pitch, but not far off. It was floored with a turquoise blue and pink Aubusson carpet. I walked across it to the grand piano and put an elbow on it and was stared at by an Italian pianist with one of those wild hairdos that proper musicians ought to have. He wasn’t yet playing anything worth listening to, just toyed with notes and looked past my shoulder at a crystal punch bowl big enough to bath a polar bear.A haze of cigar smoke curled above the dark cherry velvet drapes for Marta to deal
The Vision She Hid 13
The bizarre words of the nurse in my mother’s hideaway hit me like a splash of cold water. But I didn’t cry. I didn’t even blink. I slipped into the corridor like a ghost who’d accidentally walked into the room of its own death. My legs carried me away without asking where to go. The corridor stretched ahead like the throat of an ancient beast, greeting me with fragments of faded damask wallpaper and timeworn carpet. It smelt faintly of cold stone, damp, buried secrets, and an expensive scent candle someone had used to mask the foul notes. I sobbed and slipped back into it like a shadow on silk. Frankly, I was scared. I didn’t dare breathe too loud. My shoes had been left behind the wardrobe in that strange room, and my bare feet were cold and silent, the kind of silent that feels dangerously illegal. The noise of the laundry downstairs buzzed like a lullaby for the unsuspecting. But in the East wing sounds had gloomy meaning. The time here moved slower, denser, in disturbing kind of
The Vision She Hid 12
The next morning my mind was preoccupied with the way big guy smiled when he spotted me in the accounting office the other day. It was genuine, human smile of a man who was happy to see someone. I’ve never seen him wearing that smile before. He kind of made my day, if the concept can be applied to a guy like Elky Jennings. It was around six in the morning, and the house was still and quiet. It was the kind of silence that made you ears ring. Not church quiet, not dead-of-night, but the kind of quiet worth listening to. There were no footsteps, no chatter. Not even the clink of glassware being washed carelessly by someone paid too much to care. It felt like the house had swallowed its voice. Big Jennings and his pack were off gnawing at something that needed their sharp teeth, and the air had gone still the moment his car rolled down the gravel. I sat in the glassy drawing room, or maybe it was the solarium—this house had rooms for every mood, and I’d lost track somewhere between
The Vision She Hid 11
The office next door smelled like copper and cheap aftershave, and maybe a little like fear if you had the right nose for it. It was a large room, freshly cleaned, high ceilings, decent office carpet of charcoal color, the kind of place where men with steady hands make their large bets.I stood at the edge of the door, one hand brushing the polished frame, playing blind. My other hand clenched tight around the cane. I was alone. Marta was addressing the mess on the marble column in the room next door. The chatter was humming low and ugly, men’s voices pretending to be calm but landing very south of it. You could feel the tension rolling off their shoulders like smoke off a hot barrel. Big Elky Jennings was not there. I wasn’t that busy, so I lingered. I heard him walking and watched everyone dispersing closer to the walls for moral support. His steps were fast and clipped down the corridor, his shoes eating up the floor. The kind of walk that makes men straighten their backs and think
The Vision She Hid 10
Morning in big guy’s house came with the subtlety of a punch in the teeth—bright, polished, and just mean enough to make you wish you’d stayed under the sheets. The sunlight poured in through the tall windows, cutting sharp across the green velvet drapes and scattering gold on the waxed floor. Somewhere down the marble hall, a vacuum cleaner hummed the sad tune of underpaid labor, and the garden fountain kept burbling like it didn’t know people were dying in the rooms upstairs.I was sitting by the window, playing blind so well I deserved an Oscar and a bottle of gin. That particular morning I would settle for the bottle. The sunlight on my face was a little too eager to be jolly, like a drunk at a wedding, and the jasmine near the window was working overtime to cover the smell of gunpowder and dead bodies.Two voices drifted in from the hallway—low, nervous, the kind of voices that have seen far too much blood before breakfast.“…shot clean through. Back of the head,” one of them sa
The Vision She Hid 9
The big man took his time with my buttons. One by one, slow and deliberate, like a guy peeling the skin off a lie to see what it is covering up. The blue kaftan slid off my shoulders by a few inches when he suddenly stopped. His chest caught the firelight the way bad news catches headlines—broad, scarred, unapologetic. I made a rushed step back just in case, fighting the urge to touch his shoulder. There was an old bullet mark on the right side near his ribs. Faded, but not invisible. The kind of souvenir one doesn’t put on display. “It is too warm in here,” he said. My eyes were playing dead behind the lashes. I gave him the full blind girl act—the blank stare, the easy breathing, the hands folded neat in my lap like I was waiting for communion. I supposed to hear just fine though. And so I did. I heard the way the wool fabric sighed when he moved. Heard the slide of the leather belt coming loose, buckle clinking soft as a warning. He tossed the belt onto the chair. Turned to th
The Vision She Hid 8
At this point things caught up with me. I was desperate for a sip of fresh air. I waved my hand just a little, and the maid slid in, accompanied by the frightened butler. “All is fine. I will be back in a minute,” I said with the face of a dying swan. My hand found the maid’s arm, and the big guy didn’t care to object. He was too busy studying a remnants of black pepper sauce on his plate. My legs were weak from the shock and the wine. The maid dragged me outside, down the stone stairs. I pushed her arm away as soon as we reached the garden and got violently sick on top of the buxus hedge. It took me a while, and I was super careful not to spoil the new dress. The air was moist and foggy, no stars on the sky, just the yellow windows of the house. I felt better after throwing up. There were living things around me like green hedges, like freshly-cut grass, and the grumpy owl that flew off the roof in search of her prey. The maid was also good. She stood behind me, gently touching my b
The Vision She Hid 7
The dining hall looked like the kind of place where kings might have sat if they’d had bad manners and worse interior designers. The chandelier overhead dripped crystal tears into the gloom, too grand for the occasion, like a showgirl at a funeral. The table was long enough to broke a dozen dirty deals across it without anyone noticing. Heavy mahogany, polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the faces of men who’d killed and sang Italian opera through dessert. I let the maid lead me - one hand grazing the wall as if I needed the touch to tell me where I was. My eyes drifted just above the heads of the crowd, soft and out of focus. My ears did all the work. The room was filled with the usual suspects: wool suits, fat rings, eyes like gun barrels. Smiles as warm as morgue drawers. At the far end of the table sat my big guy, sprawled like a dude who owned the room and charged a lot of rent for it. One elbow rested on the table, fingers tapping out some militaristic rhythm. His sparkly
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