"Lily," I said, turning to the corner. "Plug your ears. Close your eyes. Count to one hundred. Can you do that?"
"Is the bad man coming?" she squeaked from under the tarp.
"No," I said, grabbing a metal can from the shelf. "Daddy's just going to clean up a mess."
I unscrewed the cap of the industrial-grade turpentine. It was a gallon can, nearly full. I grabbed a bottle of mineral spirits with my other hand.
The pounding started again. This time, there was a metallic thunk sound. He was using a tool. An axe? A fire pick?
Crunch.
The tip of a fireman's axe punched through the center of the door, gleaming silver in the moonlight. It ripped back out, leaving a jagged hole. Through the gap, I saw a patch of white, textured material. Kevlar disguised as snow.
I didn't flinch.
I splashed the turpentine across the floor in a wide arc, soaking the wood from the easel to the door. The fumes rose up, stinging my eyes, masking the smell of the fake ink.
"You want a masterpiece, Marcus?" I muttered. "I'll give you a still life with fire."
I drenched the pile of old canvases stacked against the wall. I poured the rest of the mineral spirits onto the drafting table blocking the door.
Thunk. CRACK.
The axe came through again, widening the hole. I could see him now. A glimpse of a mask—pale, lumpy, with those weeping black tubes for eyes. He was staring right at me through the splintered wood.
I stood in the center of the room, surrounded by puddles of flammable solvent. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my Zippo lighter. I hadn't smoked in two years, but I kept it as a fidget toy. A talisman.
I flipped the lid open. Clink.
The sound was tiny, but it seemed to echo in the room.
The eye in the door hole shifted. It focused on the lighter. Then it focused on the wet floor.
The axe stopped moving.
"That's right," I said, my voice dripping with venom. "You know what this stuff smells like. You know what it does."
I struck the flint. A small, orange flame danced into existence, casting long shadows against the walls.
"Elias," a muffled voice came from behind the mask. It sounded distorted, electronic, but it was definitely human. "Don't be stupid."
"Stupid is wearing a Halloween costume to a hostage situation, Marcus," I said.
"You killed her," the voice growled. The act was dropping. The monster was gone; the grieving, hateful brother was back. "You neglected her until she broke. You need to pay."
"Maybe," I said. I held the lighter over a puddle of turpentine. "But you touched my kid. So now we're all going to pay."
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.