Chapter 2: Hands Off the Canvas
The canvas was still shaking under my hands. I didn't let go.
The tear ran right down the middle of the portrait, from top to bottom, and the two flaps hung loose and curled. Behind it was darker than the living room, like looking into a closet with no light on. The gray metal doors were open just a crack, and I could see him. My grandpa Arthur was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, his white hair catching what little light came through. His hands were together in front of him and there was tape over his mouth.
For a second nobody moved. The house was quiet except for the floor lamp humming and my breathing. I could feel the rough edge of the canvas under my fingers.
Then my dad stepped forward.
He'd been standing by the armchair since he jumped up. Now he took two quick steps toward the portrait, toward the dark space. His face was pale and his mouth was open.
"Dad?" he said again, and his voice broke on the word. It was quieter than before, not loud like he was calling across the house. Like he wasn't sure it was really him.
I tightened my grip on the gold frame. I didn't want anyone to close it. If I let go I thought the doors might disappear again, like it had never happened.
My dad reached out a hand, not to me, to the edge of the metal doors. He was still a foot away when Vincent moved.
Vincent came from the side near the window where he'd been standing with my mom. He didn't say anything at first. He just grabbed my shoulders from behind, his hands big and heavy through my hoodie, and pulled.
"Hands off the canvas, Eli," he said, his voice low and hard. "Let go right now."
I tried to hold on. My fingers slipped a little on the frame but I dug in. "No," I said. "Don't cover him up."
Vincent pulled harder and my feet slid on the rug. He wasn't yanking me like he was angry, more like he was trying to move furniture, steady and strong. I had to let go with one hand to keep my balance and he used that to get an arm around my chest and drag me back a step, then another. The frame rattled against the wall.
While he held me, my mom went to the portrait.
She didn't look at me or at my dad. She went straight to the torn canvas and grabbed the right flap with both hands. The satin of her blouse caught the light from the window. She tried to fold the canvas back together, to make the tear meet in the middle again, like if she pushed the edges close enough we wouldn't see anything.
"Vincent, help me with this," she said, her voice tight. She kept smoothing the torn edge even though it wouldn't stay.
Behind the canvas, my grandpa made a sound.
It wasn't words. The tape was still over his mouth. It was a muffled grunt, like he was trying to breathe out and speak at the same time. His eyes were on me, then on my dad. He shifted forward a little on the floor and his bound hands lifted up a few inches.
That's when I saw it properly, even while Vincent had me pulled back. The blanket under him was thin and gray, bunched up on the concrete. Next to his knee there were two plastic water bottles, one empty and tipped over, one half full. And his wrists were wrapped with something, not handcuffs, like white zip ties or cord pulled tight. The skin around them looked red.
My mom heard the sound too and froze for half a second, her hand still on the canvas.
"Mom, his hands," I said. My voice came out louder than I meant to. "Look at his hands. He can't breathe right."
"He's fine," she said quickly, not looking at him. "Eli, you're upsetting him. You need to step away."
Vincent kept his arm around me. I could feel his belt buckle against my back. "Your mother said hands off," he said near my ear. "We talked about this, kiddo. You can't just tear up the house."
My dad hadn't moved. He was standing between us and the portrait, one hand still half raised toward the doors, the other at his side. He looked at my grandpa, then at my mom trying to hold the canvas together, then at me being held back. His chest was rising and falling fast.
I tried to pull forward again but Vincent's grip didn't give. The canvas flaps hung uneven, so even with my mom holding one side, there was still a dark gap about a hand wide where you could see straight into the hidden space. My grandpa was still there, in the shadows, looking out.
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My dad took a breath like he was going to say something else, but nothing came out. He just stood there, frozen.
My mom let go of the canvas edge with one hand and pressed it flat against the wall, as if that would hide what was behind it. The tear wouldn't close.
