“You think this is funny?” Hawks hisses.
“Well, you sure as fuck can’t be serious,” I say, pushing back my chair and standing up from the table. “Because this interview was a joke.”
Striding over the conference room door, I wrench it open and call to Janice, “See Officer Hawks out, will you, Janice? Sounds like he’s got a lot of work to do.”
With that, I leave Hawks stewing in my disdain.
I’m a good enough actor that I don’t think I showed any nerves.
But in truth, it rankled me that he connected the dots to Danvers.
Goddamn Shaw for shoving us both under the microscope. This is all his fucking fault. I’ve never had a cop so much as look my way before this. Now they have a fucking description of me. They’ll be watching everything I do.
Usually, I’d head back up to my office to mull this over alone. I feel angry enough to bite the head off anyone who even looks at me.
But I don’t want to be alone—I want Mara. I want to tell her everything that happened. I want to hear what she thinks.
I’m only halfway up the stairs when I collide with her hurrying down.
“I’m sorry,” she gasps. “I couldn’t wait any longer. I couldn’t stand not knowing what was going on.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “Hawks left.”
“What did he say?”
I take her hand. “Come on. Let’s get a drink, and I’ll tell you.”
We leave the building, after a quick glance down the sidewalk to be sure Hawks isn’t still lurking around.
I take Mara to a dingy little pub that serves home-brewed cider, her favorite.
We sit across from each other in a dark and quiet corner, the oak tabletop already sticky long before Mara spills a little cider on it.
Briefly, I recap the conversation between me and the detective. I tell her everything, even the part about Danvers.
“Is Hawks right?” Mara whispers.
“Yes,” I admit. “I killed him.”
Mara’s breath catches on the inhale, then releases in a shaky waver.
“Can he prove it?”
“Probably not.”
The only evidence is enclosed inside Fragile Ego. It was insane for me to sell it. In that moment, my own ego had swelled past all reason.
No one knows about the bones, except Shaw.
Yet another reason he needs to die.
“The cop’s a crusader,” I say to Mara. “He’s not going to drop it.”
Mara looks up at me from under the fan of her dark lashes.
“Will you kill him, too?” she asks quietly.
“I’d prefer not to.”
Hawks is doing his job, and he’s not that bad at it. Nobody else noticed Danvers.
When the fuck did I make this rule for myself, not to murder people I respect? It’s inconvenient.
“Please don’t,” Mara says, relieved.
“Understand this, though,” I tell her, my voice low and cold. “I’ll do what I have to do. No one is going to take you from me … and no one is taking me from you.”
Now she shifts in her seat.
She doesn’t want me in jail, but she also doesn’t want to be party to the slaughter of a decent human.
“It probably won’t come to that.”
Mara sips her drink, her throat clenching convulsively.
She knows better than to ask me to promise.
9
Mara
After our drink together, Cole and I briefly part ways so he can deliver his submission to the sculpture committee.
This is one of our first moments apart since I moved in with him. I know he’s only allowing it because I’m holed up safely in the studio, with Janice on guard downstairs and security cameras everywhere.
I can never tell how much of his possessiveness is because of Shaw and how much is his own obsession.
Whatever the reason, it’s not a one-way street.
I’m also becoming unhealthily attached to Cole.
When he’s close by, I feel invincible. I can turn to him for help or advice. I’m completely safe for the first time in my life. No one would dare fuck with me, or even shoot a dirty look in my direction, under Cole’s terrifying stare.
Even though we’re so different from each other, I’m deeply comfortable in his company. His absence feels like a piece of me torn away. I want it reattached as soon as possible.
The minutes tick by slowly.
I work on my painting for a while, but I feel dull and listless. I keep staring at the robin’s breast, now just the right shade of dusty orange.
I like that Cole put his mark on my work in a small, subtle way.
It makes me love this painting all the more.
My work was never self-referential. I kept my memories stuffed down inside me. I didn’t mine them for material—I couldn’t look at them at all.
It was Cole who picked at the lock, finally forcing me to crack it open.
Like Pandora’s box, all the evil and ugliness came pouring out.
I thought it would kill me.
Instead, I pulled a splinter from my chest and a whole goddamn stake came out. I’m bleeding, but maybe now I’ll finally heal.
Painting these scenes doesn’t depress me. It feels like catharsis, like therapy. Once I have it down on canvas, the memory lives outside of me. Where I can view it when I want, but it no longer festers, poisoning me from the inside.
The paintings are so much better than anything I made before. They’re dark and compelling. They pull you in. You stare and stare, a kaleidoscope of emotions turning before your eyes. Each angle a new image.
I’m proud of them.
I’m proud of myself.
I never would have gotten here without Cole. Not to the studio, the shows, or even the point of putting brush to canvas with this fount of inspiration surging through me.
Cole says that I light him up, that I fill him with energy.
Well, the same is true for me.
His dark power surges through me: strong, persuasive, compelling. You can’t deny Cole what he wants. And you can’t deny me, either. Not anymore.
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my overalls.
I pull it out, feeling a leap of excitement at the sight of Cole’s name, even though he’s only been gone an hour.
“What did they say?” I cry, by way of greeting.
“Marcus York seemed to like it,” Cole replies.