Ryan’s appraising gaze shifts to the brick wall instinctively, out of habit. Once painted glossy white, now it’s grimy, smudged with old black handprints. How many layers of paint hide beneath there?
I should strip that paint, he thinks. Expose the brick. People like exposed brick.
As soon as the thought crosses his mind, pain sears through him, tearing his heart into little throbbing bits. He gasps for air.
“The secrets stay,” Winnie growls.
Ryan presses both palms flat against the sides of his head, as if he can press the pain out his ears.
“How did you . . .” he begins.
“You breathed in the ash when you were scattering it,” Winnie says, taking a drink from the vodka bottle. There is a long silence while she lets Ryan absorb the implications of what she has said. Then she looks at him with cool, unblinking, oil-colored eyes.
“You’re a murderer and a rapist,” she says again.
How could he not have seen it? It is a secret he kept from himself, only now brought into the light to be scoured away.
With a shaking hand, Ryan takes the bottle of vodka from her. He takes a long harsh swallow. He’s 40, rich and beautiful, and the ghosts of his victims will live within him for the rest of his life.
He lays his head on her soft, warm lap.
“You will remake me,” he says, closing his eyes. He will sleep. He will sleep for a long time. He will dream her dreams. He will remember what he never knew. He will savor the exquisite beauty of acceptance.
He feels her hand upon his head. She smoothes his hair carefully.
“There may be hope for you,” she says very softly, her voice sweet as honey.
Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction.