Page 103 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
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I could make coats for the homeless, spend my free time volunteering, and give every inch of myself until I had nothing left, but there would always be a motive.
To feel better about myself.
To not hurt so much.
To right my wrongs.
To ease the guilt.
I wasn’t a good person, and I had fooled myself for too long, trying so desperately to be something my father and mother weren’t.
Nash waited for me to answer.
When I didn’t, he added, “Sisyphus will be your task. Find me the sculpture and have it placed against my wall. I want Sisyphus carrying the boulder on his back, pushing it up the wall, his expression anguished and the task Sisyphean.”
I didn’t know what he was trying to tell me, but his eyes showed me all I needed to know.
You are beneath me, they screamed.
And for once, I didn’t argue.
Not because I agreed, but because I saw beyond the scathing veneer. Nash was so broken, it was almost beautiful how he had erected walls of thorns and poison ivy around himself.
A haunted castle armed with insults as cannons; two staggering, hate-filled eyes as guards; and a lonely king who never abandoned his throne for fear it would collapse.
And me? I was the fallen princess destined to never step inside his fortress.
For some stupid, foolish, self-destructive reason, I ached at the thought.
A motor had gone off in my stomach.
At least, it sounded like it.
A symphony of growls rumbled again, detonating a chain reaction of head turns on the public bus. I wanted to care, but another long day of scouring an art gallery for a Sisyphus statue left me too drained.
I found two statues today at the same gallery. Both possessed the anguish Nash required and the boulder on top of Sisyphus’ shoulders, but whereas one depicted defeat, the other depicted success.
My legs had carried my way to an empty corridor as soon as I’d seen the last one, aware I should have reserved the defeated Sisyphus after the hell Nash had unleashed upon me, but knowing I wouldn’t.
I hid in the shadows until I collected myself, surprised by how much the statue had affected me. Autopilot led me to the curator. I requested a five-week hold on the statue. Waterboarding couldn’t get me to remember my walk to the bus stop, climbing the steps, or taking a seat. Even now, I remained affected by the sheer art.
The bus careened to another stop. I let my body sway with the movement. The four-year-old in the lavender tee peppered with yellow hearts barreled into my body like a bumper car. She readjusted herself into the bright blue plastic chair beside me, dredged a granola bar from her yellow Snow White backpack, and offered it to me.
“Your stomach is loud.” She wagged the bar in front of my face with pudgy fingers. It resembled a dog’s tail whipping back and forth. “It’s my favorite kind.”
This is what your life has become, Emery. Twenty-two years of fine etiquette, prep schools, and higher education has led you to the pity and charity of a four-year-old wearing her shirt backward.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
“Lexi.”
“Thanks, Lexi.” I accepted the granola bar but slid it back into her backpack along with one of the plaid teddy bears I had stitched for Stella.
Relief inched its way across my body. I leaned back, finally free from Nash’s Sisyphus task. The past two weeks had been spent traveling from art gallery to art gallery, searching for a statue that fit Nash’s description.
This trip placed me too close to Blithe Beach, where Dad lived. Visiting him tempted me, but I didn’t cave.
