Poor Violet

Poor Violet
Richard’s pov

I spent the night in Violet’s bed. Whatever fucking game my father and Evelyn were playing with that bent cop, I wasn’t taking any chances, I had a feeling they might try to search her room while she was stuck in the hospital. I buried my face in her pillow, dragging her scent deep into my lungs, but sleep was a long time coming.

One thought chased itself in circles inside my head, a relentless, maddening loop.

What the fuck was happening?

At first light, I dragged Violet’s suitcases from the closet and began packing her life away. I had just emptied her wardrobe, laying everything across the mattress to fold, when Michael shouldered his way in. He looked like hell. He’d clearly passed out in the same clothes he’d worn to her birthday dinner, but at some point he’d torn the first two buttons clean off his shirt. Nothing remained but a few stubborn threads. His face was shadowed with stubble, dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, and his long hair was a tangled mess.

He sank onto the edge of the bed, dragging his palms down his face as if he could scrub a nightmare away. “What’s the plan?”

I folded a pair of leggings, adding them to the growing pile. “I want to call Bentley Brooks at eight,” I said, running through the mental checklist I’d been compiling. “If we are going to confront our father, we should have a lawyer present. I would like Nash there, too, as another witness.”

“You honestly believe Dad is wrapped up in this?”

I let out a hard breath. “I did not want to believe it, but it is looking pretty fucking bad for him, is it not?”

“I suppose,” Michael conceded, his voice thick with reluctance. Who wants to face the fact their own parent could be capable of something so vile? And for what?

“Where are we taking her?” he asked, leaning over to unplug her chargers from the wall behind the nightstand. He coiled the cords with care and set them beside my stack of clothes. It was typical of Violet; everything was orderly and precise.

“I called Vicky. She is booking the suite at the Grand for a week. I think we can make the mill factory livable in that time.”

“Assuming she even agrees to move in with us,” Michael said, his tone gloomy. “Have you considered that after all this, she might not want to continue? Especially since our father seems to be at the root of every fucking problem?”

My hands stilled on the tank top I was folding, my grip going tight. “I have to hope she sees we are not the enemy. We are on her side.” I said the words with a conviction I did not entirely feel, a cold thread of fear coiling in my gut. Violet was smart and grounded; I had to trust she could separate what we were to her from the chaos our father had created. We did not ask for his name, and we were not accountable for his actions.

Michael reached over and pulled open the nightstand drawer. “I think the things she wanted from the hospital are in here.” He began removing items: her laptop, her phone, a journal, and a sketchbook, all stacked neatly beside a slender art case. He clicked the case open, revealing a collection of colored pencils and fine-line pens.

He set everything on the nightstand, and I handed him a change of clothes and a few pairs of underwear I’d taken from her dresser. Most of her things were practical, cotton briefs and supportive sports bras. I only found a couple of matching sets, delicate things of lace and silk that were far too appealing, plus the lingerie set Michael had chosen for her.

The truth was, Violet lived a sparse life. Just enough clothes to get by, a gym bag for her karate gear, a small box of simple jewelry, and three pairs of shoes. I set a pair of sneakers aside to bring to the hospital so she would not have to leave barefoot.

I knew she had money. She had, after all, bought a decent used car with cash without a second thought. And yet, she owned almost nothing.

She never expected to stay anywhere for long. She had made it simple, effortless, to pack up and vanish the moment Evelyn decided to pull the rug out from under her again. The thought was a dull ache in my chest. She had been prepared to leave us without a backward glance. I found her backpack at the rear of the closet and passed it to Michael. “You can pack her clothes and computer in here.”

He gave a grim nod, and I turned back to the dresser. I had emptied all the drawers, but the two teddy bears remained on top: the large, floppy one and the smaller, comical bear still clutching his bouquet of condoms. I picked up the big one and turned to ask Michael what we should do with it.

“What should we…” As I turned, I bumped into him, knocking the sketchbook and journal from his hands before he could stow them in the backpack.

The sketchbook tumbled to the floor and fell open. I had not meant to snoop, but my eyes caught on the drawing displayed across the open page. This was not some casual doodle. The quality was fucking incredible, almost like a photograph. It was a portrait of a man sitting in a wheelchair. And he looked exactly like Michael.

Michael was staring down at it, his brow furrowed. “Dude,” he said, confusion lining his face. “Why would she draw me in a wheelchair? That is seriously creepy.”

I picked up the sketchbook, a pang of guilt spearing through me as I began to turn the pages. Yes, this was a violation. I knew she would despise us for looking. But I could not stop. It was like we had stumbled upon a secret vault. “My God, look at this.” I angled the book so he could see.

Our Violet was a goddamn prodigy.

I could almost follow a story just by looking at the sequence of drawings. The man in the wheelchair started with a generic face, but as the pages went on, around the time she came to live with us, his features began to mirror Michael’s with stunning clarity.

“She is casting you as her main character,” I said, feeling a petty, jealous twinge. To be fair, though, Michael had the same physical build as the man in her earlier drawings.

“Wow. That is kind of cool, I guess.” He took the sketchbook from me, his eyes scanning the pages. “There are some that look like you, too.” He showed me a page with a profile that was undeniably mine. “Maybe she made you the villain,” he joked, a weak attempt at a smile tugging his mouth.

“Oh, man, look at this one.” He turned the book to show me a beautifully rendered drawing of a dachshund. It had to be the one that was killed and sent to her. Seeing the little dog rendered with so much life and affection only made the cruelty of the act that much more vile.

That poor dog. Poor Violet. I would bet anything she blamed herself for its death. I closed the sketchbook in Michael’s hands. “Maybe one day she will trust us enough to show us her work herself,” I said, choosing my words with care. “For now, we never saw this.”

“Right,” Michael agreed, his expression grim, likely remembering the last time he’d overstepped and nearly started a fight. He carefully placed the sketchbook, along with her journal and laptop, into the backpack.

“How about I take this stuff to her at the hospital for the first shift? You can get hold of the lawyer and set up that meeting with Dad,” Michael suggested.

I would have preferred to be the one with her, but I nodded in agreement. I zipped the last of her things into the second suitcase. “Let’s get these loaded into my car. I do not want to leave a single thing in this house.”

Michael reached back into the nightstand drawer to double-check it was empty, and his hand brushed against something. He pulled out a small box.

It was the morning-after pill I had bought for Violet.

He lifted an eyebrow in my direction and opened the box, sliding out the silver blister pack. He held it up so I could see clearly.

The single pill was still there, untouched. She had never taken it.