My throat constricted so tightly it hurt.
I sank onto the stool in front of the easel and stared until my vision blurred, then cleared, then blurred again.
Michael hadn’t just built a house or collected orchids or gathered evidence. He had tried, in his imperfect, secretive way, to paint our future. To give us a picture to step into after he was gone.
He hadn’t finished it.
Maybe that was the point.
I picked up a brush.
The first stroke of color onto the canvas felt like stepping off a ledge and finding, to my surprise, that there was ground beneath my feet. It was shaky, uneven ground, but it held.
I worked slowly at first, eyes flicking between the reference photos he’d left on a nearby shelf and the canvas. I refined the ridge line, softened the girl’s shoulders, added more depth to the clouds. As I painted, memories surfaced—not in a torrent, but in small, manageable waves. Michael teaching Sophie to ride a bike. Michael burning dinner as he tried a new recipe and then laughing as we ordered pizza instead. Michael struggling to pronounce the Latin names of my favorite plants and making up ridiculous nicknames when he failed.
And the next.
Sometimes Sophie would join me, curling up in a chair with her laptop or sketching in a notebook. Sometimes Teresa would bring tea and sit quietly nearby, sewing something or reading. The studio became, as Michael had hoped, a space for whatever we needed it to be.
We were still sad. We were still angry. But we were not stuck.
One evening, as the sun hovered just above the ridge, tires crunched once more on the gravel drive.
For a second, my stomach clenched, bracing for the worst—another ambush, another attempt at pressure. I wiped my hands on a rag and peered out the studio window.
A single car, older than the others, navy with a dent in the bumper, had pulled up by the front steps.
Victor stepped out.
He did not stride this time. He walked more slowly, his shoulders not quite as squared. There was no suit jacket, just a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his tie hanging loose. He held something small in his hand.
I met him at the front door, not stepping out, but not slamming it either.
“Naomi,” he said.
“Victor,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral.
He cleared his throat. Up close, I could see deeper lines around his eyes than I remembered, a tightness at the corners of his mouth.
“I don’t want anything,” he said. “I’m not here to challenge or threaten. I just… wanted to give you this.”
He held out the object he’d been holding. It was a photograph, its edges worn, the colors slightly faded.
I took it cautiously.
Three boys stared out from the image, standing under a large cottonwood tree. The tallest—probably around twelve—stood in the center, his arm thrown around the shoulders of the two younger ones. His hair was dark and messy, his grin wide and mischievous.
On his right, a boy with sharper features squinted at the camera, one eyebrow lifted as if asked to participate in something he found slightly ridiculous.
On his left, a smaller boy clutched a flowerpot with both hands. Inside the pot, a tiny orchid plant with two leaves and a single bud poked up, fragile and determined. The boy’s smile was breathtakingly familiar.
Michael.
“He found this in Dad’s old desk,” Victor said quietly. “The last time he came up here before…” He trailed off, swallowing. “He and I—things were bad. But for a few minutes, we looked at this and remembered something good. Before the business. Before the money.”
His gaze drifted past me, into the house, where the walls glowed with painted orchids.
“I was wrong about a lot,” he said. “About what mattered. About what he wanted. I thought he was running away from responsibility. Turns out he was the only one who understood it.”
“And Pierce?” I asked. “Noah?”
“Pierce will follow the money,” he said with a bitter huff of almost-laughter. “He’s already moved on to other projects now that this looks like a headache instead of a payday. Noah…” He hesitated. “Noah might call you. Or he might disappear. He’s always been better at vanishing when things get complicated.”
I nodded slowly.
“Thank you,” I said, surprising myself with the sincerity in my voice. “For the photo. And for… stopping.”
He shifted, uncomfortable. “You know,” he said, glancing at the surrounding hills, “we always thought this place was cursed. Too much happened here. Too much fighting. Too many secrets.” His gaze returned to me. “Maybe we were the curse. Maybe it just needed new… caretakers.”
