Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 126580 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126580 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
“Fill me in. How are things with you?”
“I don’t want to do that. You tell me about Ma, tell me about Kelly. She still ask about me?”
I laughed, but I told him. I left out the part about Justin and the part where Mom was herself.
When it was my time to leave, he stopped me. “Hey.”
“Yeah?” My gut sharpened again, because that tone was serious.
“Quit working at that nightclub. They’re protecting me for a reason, and I don’t know it. That gives me a bad feeling.”
My little brother, four years my junior, and he was worried about me. I reached out, unable to tell him what he wanted, and placed my hand against the plexiglass.
He hesitated but mirrored mine with his, and I gave him a smile. “Love you.”
He dipped his head down in a jerking motion. “Love you too.”
I couldn’t stop hearing his words the entire drive back to the city, and that bad feeling he had—I got it too.
It only grew the closer I got, but it was Thursday. I’d taken the day off from work, and I didn’t have a shift at Katya until tomorrow.
Instead of going home and hanging out with Justin and Kelly, I turned toward a place that I hadn’t visited in a long time. Too long of a time.
I went to an art studio that I used to use, because once upon a time, before my dad died, my mom started drinking, my brother went to prison, I’d wanted to be an art student. The owner was my high school art teacher, and she gave me a key years ago, saying I could stop in and use her products anytime. I barely ever took her up on the offer, and the few times I had, I’d reimbursed her for the products.
That was a whole lifetime ago, but I was feeling the itch tonight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
TRACE
I’d been keeping tabs on her, but this place was new. She’d deviated.
Ashton was the one who let me know where she was, and it’d not been in our PI’s report, so I wanted to find out for myself what place this was—or whose place this was.
Sitting in my vehicle, parked on the street, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
She was painting. It was an art studio, and it was set up so if an artist was in process, the windows were placed where people on the street could watch. It was set back and off the sidewalk so it wasn’t totally visible to just anyone driving by. But if you were coming specifically for the studio itself, or if you were someone like me, you could sit and watch to your heart’s content.
Her head was down. She had paint covering her hands, her arms, her shoulders. When she turned once, I saw more on her face. She didn’t look outside. I didn’t think she was even aware she was on display, but I was guessing there was music because her head kept swaying from side to side. She dipped her hand into the paint and turned to the canvas, going at it.
She painted with her hands. No brushes. No pencil. No charcoal. Just her hands, and the canvas was set to the side so I couldn’t see the painting itself, but it was taller than her. She stood up on her tiptoes more than once to reach the highest parts of it, and it was set on the floor, so she bent down as well. She disappeared from sight for those moments. A cupboard or table blocked my view.
I wanted to see the painting, enough where I got out of the vehicle and approached the building.
I moved to the side, propped a shoulder against the wall, and turned so I had a view through to her. I still couldn’t see what she was creating, but I could see her.
She was mesmerizing, moving in a rhythm where it was obvious she was in some sort of trance.
I stayed there even when the cold seeped through my jacket and into my bones, deep in my bones, but I still remained. It might’ve been hours. I didn’t know until suddenly, the lights turned off, and I straightened, shaking from how cold it was. I started for my vehicle.
“Last time I saw you, I told you to leave me alone.”
I turned slowly, thinking how her tone matched the weather. Fucking cold.
She was standing outside a back door, in the alley that my back was turned to. One of her feet had the door propped open. She was staring at me.
“You said we were done.”
“What’s the difference?” Her nostrils flared, because she knew there was a difference. “I told you another time to leave me alone too.”
I started for her, going slow. “You said I should leave you alone.”
Should.
I kept going. She wasn’t shutting the door.