I see only you.
His message begins to blur as tears collect in my eyes, and I wipe furiously as they release and tumble down my cheeks. I read again on a tiny sob and look to the painting to remind myself of its magnificence. I don’t know why. This image and these words are imprinted on my mind already, after only a few sparse minutes absorbing it all. I’m willing the onset of internal fireworks, I need to feel him, see him, but after a few moments of silently begging for him to come to me, it’s still just me and the painting.
But then I remember the string attached to my wrist and I seize it, noticing it stemming off from the other side of the painting, so I detach myself from the one connecting me to the artwork and claim the new lead, following it to the kitchen, frowning when I see a line of thread leading back out. It quickly tells me that my hunt isn’t over yet, and it also tells me that Miller isn’t in the kitchen. But a huge mess on the table is, and I’m suddenly hit by the lingering smell of burning, but it’s the very unlike-Miller mess that has me hurrying over where I find scissors, scraps of paper everywhere, and a pot. I look into it, too curious, and gasp when I clock the burned contents.
‘Oh . . .’ I whisper to myself, returning my attention to the table and absorbing the scattering of ripped and cut pages. Diary pages. I gather a few up and turn them in my hands a few times, searching for anything to confirm what I think I’m looking at. And there it is. Miller’s handwriting.
‘He burned his date book,’ I murmur, letting the scraps of paper float down to the table. And he’s left a mess? I’m not sure which I’m most shocked by. I’d give this quandary more thought if I wasn’t now staring at a photograph. All of the feelings I felt when I first saw this photo hit me like a sledgehammer – the helplessness, the wretchedness, the sorrow, and I begin to tear up again, yet I still collect the picture of Miller as a boy from the table and regard it for a while. I don’t know why, but something makes me turn it over, despite knowing the back is blank.
It’s not now, though.
Miller’s handwriting is scrolled across the back, and I’m off again, now sobbing like a baby as I run my eyes over his next message.
Dark or light, only you.
Come find me, sweet girl.
I pull myself together fast, now panicked for another reason. I leave the mess and grab the string, following it fast and not giving it much thought when it leads me to the front door. I’m out of his flat, wrestling with the sheets concealing me, and trailing my lead, but I abruptly come to a stop when my trail ends and the string disappears.
Between the doors of the lift.
‘Oh my God,’ I blurt, smacking the call button like a loon, my aching heart beating a strong staccato against my rib cage. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.’
Each second feels like centuries as I wait impatiently for the lift to open, persistently smacking the button for no purpose, other than for something to physically hit. ‘Open!’ I yell.
Ding!
‘Oh, thank God!’ The string falls from mid-air, down to the ground at my feet when the doors begin to part.
And the fireworks hit me like a charging bull. Flurries or them – all attacking me, making me light-headed and dizzy, challenging my ability to see.
But I see him.
My hand shoots out and holds the wall to stop me from collapsing in shock. Or is it relief? He’s sitting on the floor of the lift, his back to the wall, his head dropped, and the thread leads to a loop fastened around his own wrist.
What the hell is he doing in here?
‘Miller?’ I inch forward, wary, wondering what state he might be in and how I might handle it. ‘Miller, baby?’
His head lifts. He slowly opens his eyes. And my breath is robbed from me when piercing blue eyes sink into me. ‘There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, sweet girl,’ he breathes, reaching for me. ‘Nothing I couldn’t do.’ A slight cock of his head gestures for me to come to him, which I do without thought, keen to comfort him. Though why he’s in the lift is a bloody mystery. Why would he put himself through this? I take his hand and engage my muscles to help him up, but I’m on my way down to his lap and being arranged just so before I can react on instinct and remove him from the monster hole.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, resisting the urge to fight with him.
I’m wrestled into position. ‘You are going to give me my thing.’
‘What?’ I’m confused. He wants his thing in a scary lift?
‘I’ve asked once,’ he snaps impatiently, and he wholeheartedly means it. Why is he doing this?