The Girl Who Cries Colors, page 21
Willow put her chin up and met his gaze with fierce strength. “No,” she countered. “He’s not yours. He never was, and he never will be. Thank God.”
Frankie turned enraged. “You fuckin’ whore!”
He backhanded her across the face, making her cry out and fall to the ground. She scrambled to her feet as quickly as she could, blood and tears streaming down her face. So many colors were coming out of her that Archie couldn’t keep track of them all.
David crouched in front of the boy protectively as he started to sob. “Mama!”
Frankie pushed Willow away, his expression murderous as he watched the boy cling to David.
Archie only had a split second to react as Frankie pulled out his pistol and pointed it at David. Archie dove at him. But Willow got there first.
The gun went off.
Then all hell broke loose.
Screams.
Shattering glass.
Running.
Willow, David, and the boy, all on the ground. Frankie staring down at them over his smoking gun.
In the span of a heartbeat, Archie’s own gun was drawn and was pointed at Frankie head. But before he could pull the trigger, he felt the cold metal of another gun pressed against his own skull.
“Drop it.”
Archie flicked his gaze to look at Tony from his periphery. He knew the man would shoot him, no problem. But Archie didn’t want to drop the gun. Frankie had shot Willow, or David, or the boy… He wasn’t sure which, and Archie couldn’t bring himself to check who was hit. He couldn’t tell whose blood was staining the white-tiled floor, and he didn’t dare take his eyes off Frankie.
“I said fuckin’ drop the gun, pig,” Tony spat, pressing the gun deeper against Archie’s head.
“Archie,” someone called.
He raised his eyes to find the source of the voice and found Balls standing with his hands up; he and Coen being held back by more of Frankie’s men. Balls’ face was terrified. “Drop it, Arch,” he implored.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Archie had dropped too much. He’d dropped the ball when their parents died, hell, he’d dropped his family like yesterday’s trash when he walked out on them. He couldn’t do it this time. Not again.
So he pulled the trigger instead. He simultaneously jerked his head to the side, trying to dodge Tony’s aim.
Noise exploded with pain.
There was a sense of falling. Of shattering. Screams turned into the wailing of a windstorm. His body was too hot, like he’d caught on fire, and then it was entirely too cold. He could feel wetness oozing from his head—the same way Willow’s tears trickled down her cheeks; the same way David’s paints dripped across a canvas. All three mixed together until there was no difference between one and the other. Tears, paints, blood. It was all the same. They all bled out.
He landed in front of Frankie’s open, lifeless eyes.
And then, there was nothing.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
ARCHIE
The funeral service was closed to the public, but the public showed up anyway.
There was no privacy, not even in death. Not after the gallery shooting and Willow’s secret had been revealed. No, the public had become obsessed with The Girl Who Cries Colors and the famous artist who’d painted her.
The church was blocked off to everyone except family and very close friends, but teems of people crowded along the churchyard and cemetery, with even more lining up and down the street.
Windrip, New Hampshire was stuffed over capacity. Cars were everywhere. There were handmade signs at every street corner. Notes of love were stapled to every telephone pole like lost dog posters. The motels had filled up quickly. People had even started knocking on doors in residential neighborhoods asking to rent rooms so that they could stay in town for the event. An event. That’s what the news stations were calling it. Like it was some sort of carnival or gala, instead of a painful mourning.
But at least there was no event for Frankie Gallo. No, he was burned to nothing but ashes and put to rest where the only visitors he’d get were those who’d spit on his plaque and graffiti over his name.
Archie automatically reached up to run his hand over his now shaved head and felt the place where the bullet had grazed him. There was a wicked scar and he’d lost a lot of blood, but he was alive. By millimeters. If he hadn’t jerked his head away when Tony shot at him, he wouldn’t be standing here now. But it had been worth it. He had been willing to die to make sure that Frankie Gallo didn’t live to see another day. He’d risk it all over again if he had to.
Just like he knew Willow would’ve done it over again. She’d step in front of Frankie’s gun every time. She made that choice, the choice to protect her son and David. She made the choice to finally stand against him, same as Archie. Neither of them was willing to let Frankie win. Which is why Frankie’s bullet had hit her, instead of David, and why Archie wouldn’t drop his gun.
There was power in their choices, and yes, there was pain, too.
She deserved so much better. So much more. She deserved a happy ending—no, not an ending. She just deserved to be happy.
Even though he’d killed Frankie, it didn’t mean that he earned a place at the funeral. Which is why he was outside, watching over it all.
Archie continued to lean up against his car while he observed the throngs of artists. They’d banded together to give David a sort of tribute. Some had set up canvases on the sidewalk, painting David’s likeness, others did their representations of David’s work. It was a spectacle, and there was a lot of talent, but none of them came close to what David could do. None of them had that same spark.
Teardrop jewelry sales went through the roof, and women started sporting silk gloves wherever they went. The churchyard was filled with memorabilia that people left: flowers, paintbrushes, notes. But the most fascinating thing that people kept dropping off were far more personal.
At first, Archie didn’t understand what was in the containers being left on the grass. But then he’d overheard a reporter talking and he understood. The various sizes of glass jars, old water bottles, vials, old perfume containers, vases, and more--and they all had tears in them. The public was literally crying for her. For once, other people gave her the tears.
Surprisingly, people all over were arriving at the funeral with streaks of color painted on their faces. There were hundreds of them wearing rainbows of faux tears to mark her passing. Their tribute of colors was a strange contrast against their black funeral clothes. But then, so is a rainbow against a dark, stormy sky. They were calling her The Girl Who Cried Colors, already changing her to past tense.
They’d made her death into a romantic, mournful loss, all of them claiming their unending love. David’s paintings, especially his collection of Willow’s portraits and her colored tears, became notorious, and sold millions of copies worldwide.
But he couldn’t begrudge the public. They loved her too much. Ever since her story broke, including her tragic ending, the world couldn’t seem to leave her alone. There wasn’t a single person in America that didn’t know the names Willow and David Beck.
It was a strange thing to stand behind the crowd, watching as they cried. None of them knew her. None of them even knew about her until she was gone. And yet, they mourned.
When the service was over, Archie watched as cops and bodyguards escorted the family out. Within seconds, the Becks and Collins’s were whisked away in cars. I caught the barest glance of Balls keeping an umbrella over David so that the photographers couldn’t catch him in a shot.
Archie stayed for a long time.
He watched people start to leave and the slow progression of cars emptying from the street. It was a hesitant tide, but it eventually moved out.
Archie was still there by the time the church janitor showed up. He watched the man scratch his head over all the mementos that people had left, leaning on his broom like he was tempted to just sweep it all away.
“Hey.”
Startled by the sudden voice, Archie turned and saw Balls hanging out of backseat window of a car.
“Hey,” Archie said back.
They looked at each other for a few moments, not saying anything, just taking each other’s measure. Feeling the years of absence, anger, hurt, and relief volleying between them.
Finally, Balls tipped his head. “Get your ass in the car, Beck.”
So he did.
Epilogue
One Year Later
Archie had his arms crossed over his chest as he silently watched his brother. He’d been doing that a lot over the last year. Part of him was still hesitant to interact with any of them. He’d been pulled back into their circle, but he still felt like he was the line around them, rather than the shape inside.
It felt good to be a part of the family again, but that didn’t mean he deserved to be. Like now, as he watched their youngest brother struggle, he didn’t really know where his place was. Elsie assured him that it was enough just to be there, so that’s what he did. He made sure he was there. It was barely dawn, and none of them had slept, but he was there, and he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
David sat in the dim living room with his head in his hands. His eyes were closed with exhaustion and his fingers were stained with paint.
He’d started painting again ever since he got home from the army and hadn’t stopped since. Whatever that thing was inside of David, it burned and crackled with an intensity that even Archie could sense. But it was no wonder that nearly all the paintings he did were of her.
It was like he unzipped his soul and bled her out every time that he picked up his brush. There was a beauty in it, and there was also inexplicable sadness for all the time he had lost.
When the sun rose a little bit more, David stirred slightly. There was a newspaper on the coffee table with Willow’s face plastered on the front page. David’s son was curled up on the couch beside him, only his blonde hair visible from under the blanket.
The little boy was already giving his dad a run for his money when it came to painting. Archie caught the two of them sitting side-by-side at matching canvases, painting the day away. The kid was the spitting image of David at that age.
Balls strode into the room, cutting off Archie’s ruminations. He handed Archie a cup of coffee, took one look at David’s rumpled appearance, and his expression grew subdued.
“Hey. How you holding up?” Balls asked, nudging their brother with his foot.
David sat up and took the cup Balls offered him. “I’m alright,” he murmured.
Balls snorted. “Sure you are.”
Elsie and Coen came into the room next. She carried a tray of pastries that Coen had baked. “Here,” she said, offering David one.
He shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”
“Davie, eat the damn pastry,” Archie said.
His brother plucked a pastry from the tray and took an exaggerated bite. “Happy?” he asked through a full mouth.
“Yep,” Archie deadpanned.
All four of their heads snapped up when the sound of a cry carried down from the stairs.
David was out of his seat and taking the steps two at a time before anyone could stop him. Archie shared a look with his other siblings before following behind him. They all hovered in the hallway with David until the bedroom door swung open and a beaming Mrs. Collins took them all in. “Don’t just stand there, come in!”
David hurried inside while his siblings hung back. He strode to the edge of the bed and looked down at the sweaty woman propped up against the headboard.
Archie watched the platinum blonde as she grinned up at David. She no longer rationed her smiles. Her name was Iris Jones. He knew her legal address, her date of birth, even her social security number. He would, since he’d made them for her.
He’d given Willow Collins a death, and a way to end her darkest chapter.
He’d given Iris Franklin a birth, and a way to start anew.
She’d been shot in the arm by Frankie that night, but it was all the opportunity they’d needed to take back control. Willow hadn’t wanted to be a celebrity. She hadn’t wanted Frankie’s men or the obsessed public to consume her world. So he pulled all the strings within reach and gave her a new identity, and a new chance at having the life she deserved.
But despite her bleached hair and changed name, the truth of her was in her eyes like always. He watched as happy golden tears tracked down her cheeks.
She held the bundle in her arms and passed it up to David. “A girl,” she said proudly.
David’s expression was one filled with wonder as he gathered the tiny baby in his arms. “A girl,” David breathed.
He stared at her with adoration and placed a gentle kiss on her blonde head. He hooked his finger against the baby’s tiny cheek and caught the last of her golden tears. He was completely smitten with his new daughter.
“Another Girl Who Cries Colors,” Willow mused.
Archie watched them, transfixed.
He was the magnificent painter with the spark in his hands. She was the one who carried the rainbow of rain inside of her. He had the warmth and she had the storm. He was the artist, and she was the brush with all the colors.
Together, they painted the world.
Thank You For Reading
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Acknowledgments
Thank you to my parents for always believing in me, to my husband for all of your support, to my sister for always having my back, and to my daughter for bringing new color into my life. To my nana for instilling a respect for words at a young age. You are missed.
To all of my backstage helpers: Heather, Ashley, Meg, Nichole, & all of my ARC warriors. Thank you for all of your help and encouragement when I needed a boost.
And a huge thanks to you, the reader. The fact that you took the time to read this story means the world to me.
About the Author
Raven Kennedy is a voracious reader and has been writing stories for as long as she can remember. She enjoys writing all kinds of genres, because each one brings a different experience. She lives with her husband and daughter in California.
Connect with Raven on social media!
Raven’s website: ravenkennedybooks.com
E-mail: ravenkennedybooks@gmail.com
Raven Kennedy, The Girl Who Cries Colors
