The Masked Family Read Free Page A

a painting she'd already finished. Ninety percent of the painting would be a field of daisies, resplendent in midsummer sunlight. The heart of the image, however, positioned slightly northwest of dead center, would be a mangled, fetal creature hunched in a patch of blackened flowers. The gnomelike figure's gnarled hands would be full of dead daisies, contaminated by his touch; his face would be a twisted version of Eric's, decayed, surreal, but recognizable.
    And she would sell this painting for a lot of money. Macabre stuff like that always sold best in her shop.
    "This is an opportunity for you, too," said Eric. "You have a secret admirer."
    Suddenly, Celeste's eyes snapped up from the candle stub. She stopped thinking about the daisies and deformed gnome.
    "It's another reason why I'm stepping aside," said Eric. "I know you well enough to know you're this guy's total soul mate. He's had a thing for you ever since you met at his New Year's Eve party."
    Celeste stared at Eric as if he'd just sprouted D-cup breasts. "Coley Bassinette?" she said, her voice dripping with disgust--not for Coley Bassinette, but for the moron ex-boyfriend who was actually trying to set her up with someone at the same time he was dumping her.
    "Is it okay that I gave him your number?" said Eric.
    *****
    So what if I can't ever go back to my favorite restaurant? It was worth it.
    As Celeste rode home in the taxi, she couldn't help smiling. Every time she remembered the moment when she'd up-dumped the table on Eric, she could barely hold back the hysterical laughter.
    Hysterical was the right word for it, too. The laughter definitely had an edge of rage and desperation. She was proud of herself for what she'd done, the bastard had deserved it...but he'd still come out the winner. Other than having to foot a dry cleaning bill to get dinner out of his clothes, he'd strolled off free and easy and unhurt.
    I hope he dies. Even as Celeste thought it, she knew it lacked conviction. Up until an hour ago, she'd been all the way in love with him. She hadn't had nearly enough time to hate him properly.
    I'll get there. One day at a time.
    She just hoped her brother, Cary, wouldn't make her feel better too soon. She really wanted to nurse her hatred a good long while, and Cary had a way of helping her get over things fast. It figured, because his childhood super-hero code name in the Nuclear Family had been "The Hurry."
    Would she be able to hold off calling him so she could nurse her grudge a little longer? No way. Celeste hadn't spoken to him in weeks, and she sure couldn't resist calling him with this news.
    In fact, riding in the taxi made her look forward to talking to him even more. Cary's latest job was driving a cab. That and dressing up like a super-hero for parties, of course.
    And being a full-blown super-hero in his own mind, don't forget. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
    Better to be a delusional wannabe super-hero than a selfish asshole who won't even ask to drive his ex-girlfriend home after he dumps her in public.
    Â 
    *****
    Cary really did make Celeste forget about Eric dumping her, it turned out...only not in the way she'd expected.
    When she got home to her apartment over the shop where she sold her paintings, she called Cary's number again and again. No one picked up...not Cary, not Crystal, not even one of the kids. Nobody home.
    No big deal , thought Celeste. People go out for the evening sometimes.
    Two hours later, she was packing a bag, tying her hair in a ponytail, and getting ready to drive to Wheeling, West Virginia, which was where Cary lived.
    When she thought about it later, on the way to Wheeling, she had trouble convincing herself that what she was doing made sense. So what if Cary hadn't answered a phone call in weeks? Most of his cab-driving shifts were at night, which was when Celeste usually called him. So what if she had a terrible feeling in her gut? Maybe that feeling had something to do with her just being