Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Studio
Two weeks later, I discharged myself against medical advice.
The physical therapists at Palm Beach General looked at me like I was clinically insane as I signed the release forms with my right hand, my left arm still strapped into a rigid fiberglass and carbon-fiber sling that made me look like a wounded bird. My ribs were taped so tightly I could only take shallow, whistling breaths, and every step felt like someone was driving a red-hot knitting needle through my pelvis.
They dropped me off in an Uber at the curb of my studio apartment on Clematis Street—a second-story loft above a Greek bakery that smelled permanently of roasting lamb and burnt sugar.
The door had been kicked in.
Not subtly, either. The heavy oak frame was splintered around the deadbolt, the brass lock assembly dangling by a single rusted screw. Inside, my sanctuary had been systematically gutted.
My canvases—the large-scale oil portraits I’d spent two years painting of Palm Beach society figures with their masks peeled back to reveal the rot underneath—had been slashed from corner to corner with a box cutter. Shards of broken pottery crunched under my sneakers. My sketchbooks were piled in a sodden, reeking heap in the center of the Persian rug, soaked in what smelled suspiciously of industrial turpentine.
Madison hadn't just looked for the ledger. She had left a calling card.
I stood in the doorway, leaning my weight against the splintered frame, and didn't cry. You don't cry when you've already died once on a tile terrace. You take inventory.
"Emily?"
A voice from the stairwell. Heavy, dragging footsteps.
I whipped around, my heart hammering against my fractured ribs, my good hand instinctively searching for something—anything—to use as a weapon. A rusted iron chisel lay near the baseboard. I dropped down on one knee, ignoring the agonizing stab in my hip, and scooped it up.
A figure rounded the landing.
"Whoa, easy with the hardware, kid. I bring coffee, not a subpoena."
Leo Vance.
Not my brother—we didn't have brothers, only cousins who shared our grandfather’s talent for fiscal dishonesty and professional alcoholism. Leo was the black sheep of the Palm Beach dynasty: a disgraced former forensic accountant who had spent three years working white-collar crime cases for the SEC before being nudged out of the agency for refusing to bury an investigation involving our uncle’s shipping conglomerate.
He looked like a man who slept in his car and lived on black coffee and nicotine patches. His linen suit was rumpled, his dark hair curling over the collar of an unbuttoned oxford shirt, and he carried two cardboard cups from the bakery downstairs.
"Leo?" I lowered the chisel slightly, though my fingers remained locked around the handle. "What are you doing here?"
"Checking on my favorite cousin," he said, stepping over a ruined canvas of a local judge whose expression now resembled a flayed pig. He surveyed the wreckage with a slow, mournful whistle. "Jesus, Maddy’s interior design style is getting more aggressive. Did she use a chainsaw or just standard demolition tools?"
"How did you know I was here?"
"I didn't. I was waiting at the hospital to see if you were going to wake up or if Aunt Elizabeth was going to pull the plug to save on parking fees," he said smoothly, walking over to the small kitchenette where the espresso machine had been smashed to pieces. He set the coffee down on a relatively clean spot on the counter, pulled a battered silver hip flask from his jacket, and added a generous splash of bourbon to his cup. "Turns out, you checked yourself out. Smart. Never trust a woman who wears white linen to an ICU; she's either hiding a body or a lawsuit."
I stood up, wincing as my ribs shifted. "Why are you here, Leo? You haven't spoken to our side of the family since Grandfather’s funeral."
"That's because your side of the family smells like offshore tax havens and formaldehyde," he replied, turning to look at me with dark, sharp eyes that missed nothing—not the sling, not the pale, drawn tautness of my skin, not the way I favored my left leg. "Word is floating around the club that Madison is getting married to Julian next month. A grand affair. St. Edward's Chapel. Reception at the Breakers. Four hundred guests, including the state attorney general and half the appellate bench."
"I know," I whispered. "Julian needs the trust money to cover his crypto losses. Madison needs the social clout to keep her seat on the charity board before the annual audit."
"And you?" Leo raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his spiked coffee. "Where do you fit into this little domestic fairy tale? The crippled artist who fell off a balcony by accident?"
"They think I'm still the girl who stays silent," I said, walking over to the corner where my old drafting table had been overturned. I knelt down, ignoring the pain, and reached beneath the heavy cast-iron base. There was a loose floorboard—one that hadn't been touched because the pile of slashed canvases made it look like garbage.
I pulled out a small, waterproof Pelican case.
I snapped the latches. Inside, resting in custom-cut foam, were three things:
The original paper ledger of the Vance Foundation, signed in my mother's own hand, detailing twenty million dollars in illicit transfers to shell companies in the British Virgin Islands.
A backup flash drive containing the raw audio files of every conversation Madison and Elizabeth had held about me over the last three years—including the night of the wedding announcement when they discussed how to legally declare me mentally incompetent.
The analog micro-cassette recorder from my hospital stay, with Madison’s confession glowing on the tiny magnetic tape.
I looked up at Leo. The cynical, exhausted look in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp gleam of professional appreciation.
"Well, I'll be damned," Leo murmured, squatting down beside me. "You didn't just keep a diary, Emmy. You built a guillotine."
"It's not a guillotine," I said, my voice cold enough to freeze water. "It's an invitation."
May you like
"To what?"
"A wedding." I pushed myself up, leaning against the edge of the table. "And we're going to make sure the bride doesn't make it to the altar."
