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The detective confirmed that she was suffering from morning sickness. I had to pull a lot of strings to lure her to a township close enough to New Alderney so I could drive to her without alerting Tommy Galliano that I was encroaching on his territory. That involved finding her the kind of work I knew she would find irresistible and a ground-floor apartment in a safe area that wasn’t too suspiciously affordable.
Emberly enters the building, and I turn my attention to my phone, where I power up the surveillance app.
I’ve stationed men in the building across the road and have paid others to watch out for her along the usual route she takes home, but keeping a close eye on her myself is the only thing that eases my mind.
She kicks off her shoes, hangs up her coat, and walks into the combined living room and kitchen to turn on the kettle.
I zoom in on her face to find dark circles beneath her eyes, another sign that she’s having trouble sleeping. Emberly cries in bed most nights, and sometimes wakes between one or three in the morning from nightmares.
The sound of her pain sears like a brand, and I want to reach through the app and give her comfort. Sometimes, I drive through the night and stand outside her window with my hand pressed on the glass, trying to offer my silent support.
When I told Emberly I loved her, it was a lie. Love can’t describe the depth of my longing, the ache of my obsession. If I had to choose between Emberly or breathing, I would rip out my lungs and burn them for her as an offering.
“Roman,” she whispers.
I bolt upright, my heart wanting to leap through the windshield.
“Why?” She shakes her head and walks away from the boiling water.
“Make your tea, baby,” I murmur.
When Emberly walks out of the kitchen, I switch cameras to find her standing in the doorway to the box room, which she converted into a studio.
A medium-sized canvas sits on an easel, with brushes and paints set up on a side table. The weekend she moved into the apartment, I arranged for a neighbor to hold a garage sale containing second-hand items she might find useful. I made sure to include supplies they’d supposedly purchased for a teen who changed their mind about wanting to pursue art.
Emberly set up her studio months ago, yet she seems afraid of failure. Every evening after work, she stands in the doorway, staring at the blank canvas. She’s never gotten close enough to touch it, let alone pick up a brush.
“Sit down,” I say to the screen.
She closes her eyes and inhales a deep breath, as though psyching herself up to step inside.
Once again, guilt punches through my rib cage and grips at my heart. Not even Jim Callahan’s abuse put Emberly off painting. A few weeks in my company destroyed her will to produce art.
“Go inside,” I say.
She grips the doorframe with both hands and flares her nostrils. My heart skips a beat. Will she do it today?
Emberly takes one step into her studio, followed by another. Holding my breath, I send her encouragement through the screen.
Her gaze wanders around the room, looking everywhere but the empty canvas, and she picks up a pencil.
“That’s right, baby,” I murmur. “Now, please, sit down.”
“Fucking hell. I can’t do it.”
“You can, sweetheart,” I say. “Don’t let anyone take away your gift.”
Emberly sits on the stool and holds the pencil over the canvas, her hand trembling. I switch to another camera that gives me a view of her from behind.
She freezes.
I gulp, unable to take the suspense. It’s been six months since she painted. Six months since she did anything but teach children to make art. My fingers itch to press down on the microphone button and tell her everything will be okay.
But I can’t.
She drops the pencil and falls forward and claps her hands over her eyes. Her shoulders tremble with sobs that tear into my gut like claws. Hunching over the screen, I feel her pain so viscerally that I groan.
My head rests against the steering wheel, guilt wrapping around my neck like a noose. Of all the things I could have stolen from her, why did I have to take her soul?
