Page 87 of Double or Nothing

I stare at him.

The words don’t compute at first. They float in the air, ugly.

“Her freedom to do what?”

“To paint. To experiment. To indulge this artistic chapter.” He waves his hands as he scoffs.

Her work means nothing to him. It never has. To him she’s just a kid with a messy paintbrush.

My hands curl against my knees.

“This isn’t a chapter to her, Bill. Art is her life. You can see that just by looking at her work.”

Bill gives me a measured stare. The warning that comes from inside me sounds exactly like him.

Careful, Bryce.

“I know you’re fond of Alice,” he says. “You always have been.”

My heart punches hard as I nod at him.

“But fondness can cloud judgement. Alice is twenty-eight years old now. She is my only child. At some point, life must become more than galleries and canvases and charming little bouts of self-discovery.”

Charming little bouts. What a cunt.

That isn’t a word that usually enters my mind. It comes unbidden.

I feel heat rise up my neck.

“Alice is a serious artist.”

“She is a Parker,” he says.

Just that.

Flat. Final.

She is a Parker.

Not Alice. Not Soul Girl with paint in her hair. Not the woman who laughs like light breaking through the night sky. Not the girl who filled sketchbooks in the summer house while I pretended not to stare.

A Parker.

An asset.

A heir.

A piece in his empire hungry board game.

Bill opens the folder. I feel sick at the thought of what might be inside.

“I have plans in motion,” he says. “Plans I do not want spoiled.”

My ears ring.

Spoiled.

By Jack? By me? By Alice herself?