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.
“When will you hear back?”
“Soon. York is pushing this thing through as quickly as possible. He’s got some finger in the pie, I don’t know what exactly—probably a kickback on the construction.”
“Do you want to win?” I ask him, wondering how disappointed he’ll be if Shaw takes it instead.
“I always want to win.”
“And if you don’t?”
Cole laughs. “I don’t know how I’ll feel—I’ve never lost before.”
I like the sound of his voice over the phone—like he’s murmuring right in my ear. It makes the little hairs on my arms stand up. I don’t want to hang up.
“Are you coming back now?” I ask him.
“I’m almost there already. I’m driving like it’s the Grand Prix. Come stand at the window so I can see you as I pull up.”
Impulsively, I unfasten the straps of my overalls and step out of them. I pull off my shirt and my underwear as well.
Then I step up onto the window frame, completely nude, looking down at the street below.
I see Cole’s black Tesla zoom up to the curb, stopping short with a jerk. He steps out, tall and lean, his long dark hair tossed back by the wind.
He looks up at me.
I press my palm against the glass, phone to my ear.
“Fucking hell,” Cole breathes. “You’re a goddess.”
We head back to Cole’s house, which is beginning to feel like my house. Not because I own it, but because I love it so much. I love the stark, forbidding face, the jumble of pointed dormers and dark gables. The ornate woodwork and the black stone.
Most of all, I love this perch high up on the cliffs, with the endless cycle of waves crashing below.
The wind blows off the bay, wild and cold. It’s the chilliest November on record. People keep making stupid jokes about how we could really use that global warming right now. Janice said it to me this morning.
As Cole opens the door for me, I think perhaps I like the smell of his house best of all.
He’s lived here alone for more than a decade. The scent is all his: leather and clay, the spice of his cologne, ocean salt, wet rock after rain. And running through it like a vein, my own scent as well. As perfect a pairing as any I’ve created with food. More delicious than banana and bacon, or avocado and jam.
The textures and colors of his house soothe me. Everything is muted and dark, but so lovely. Cole could never bear anything garish or loud.
The deep chocolate boards creak beneath my feet. The diaphanous curtains blow back from the open windows with a sound like a sigh, letting the sea breeze into the house.
Cole heads up to his room to change out of his clothes. He’s fastidious and doesn’t like to wear the same shoes and trousers that made contact with the outside world. He’ll come down in a minute, probably wearing some old-fashioned smoking jacket and a pair of velvet slippers.
I’ll have to change clothes as well, as I’m still covered in paint.
For the moment, my attention is caught by my laptop, still open on the table where Cole left it.
I don’t care that he was reading my emails. I would have been incensed if anyone had done it a few weeks ago, but we’re well past that now.