Portrait of Deception
Edward walked in a daze. He staggered amongst the crowd, somehow avoided crashing into people, and blindly reached out to the nearest waiter to take one of the offered drinks. The first gulp of bourbon seemed to bring him to, and he shook his head vigorously. His eyed regained some focus and he gestured to the same tuxedo-wearing waiter for a refill, which he knocked back in one swallow.
The party was a success. Almost a hundred guests stood in the art gallery to celebrate Edward's first exhibition. Many of the paintings had already been sold, little white cards stuck on the frames signifying their new owners, and the guests were now making excited small talk over drinks and appetizers. He caught fragments of conversations, but did not have the energy to join in. Summer in the South of France, skiing in Switzerland, the opening of the hottest new clubs and restaurants. Edward moved amongst them, murmuring apologies when he accidentally brushed against them and smiling graciously at the greetings until he could see her. His wife, Courtney, who had stood by him through the last difficult three years since they married. The one person he knew who had never doubted his potential.
Edward stared, his throat constricted with emotion. She was still as beautiful as ever. Long brown wavy hair cascaded down over her shoulders, thick and shiny. She should be in a conditioner advert, he thought. Luscious, that was the word to describe it. He stood and admired her, her proud chin and tall neck, the wide smile that seemed to make the recipient grow taller when they were beamed at. From the corner of her eye, Courtney caught his gaze, and looked across quizzically. Edward smiled and raised his glass at her in a toast.
What will the papers call her? A vivacious humanitarian renowned for her charity works maybe? He shook his head slightly and watched her move around the room, greeting the guests. I wonder what they shall call me. A monster perhaps? A sick, evil and twisted lunatic, a man possessed by demons? Well maybe I am.
He turned and headed back through the crowd, shaking the occasional hand on his way, until he reached the staircase that ascended to the private offices. He walked rapidly, taking the steps two at a time, and turned into the open door at the top. On top of the table was his briefcase. Edward snapped the locks open, and lifted the contents out. A large manila package already lay torn open, the photographs taken by the investigator he had hired visible. He pulled them out and looked at them again, his expression clouded with pain. His hand shook as he placed them back on the table, and picked up the other item, a gilded knife with sharp, serrated edges. With determination he grasped the handle, and turned back to the door. Time to make tomorrow's news, he thought, and headed back down the steps.
