Except it very rarely ever does.
“They’ll be okay,” she assures me, assessing Colin over the edge of her desk. “And it’ll be good for him to see this side of things.” She turns to her planner, flipping to today’s date. “Misty was supposed to run the painting class for the kids today. Maybe you two could do that.”
13
Colin
Ithought Chloe was fucking with me when she’d navigated us straight to the shelter that Lily and her children had been staying at while her husband was dying.
Was someone helpinghertap into my phone like I’ve done to hers? Was she listening in onmyconversations?
The look on her face when I asked her if she was joking, however, told me that she was not.
She was caught off guard, offended even, by the suggestion. But I was caught off guard, too, by another curious connection between Chloe Stark and the dead man.
And not only that, but the woman behind the desk at Hope House is Wanda Sterling, Richard’s co-worker that Alex interviewed, who told him Richard had last been known to be going out for a hike before he fell to his death.
Here everyone is, mysteriously intertwined in Chloe’s web.
Chloe leads me back out of the office and across the courtyard to what appears to be an art room. Little plastic chairs sit facing blank canvases on easels, cups of brushes and tubes of paint littering a desk on one side of the room. There’s a single chair at the front of the room facing a canvas, where the teacher likely sits and watches over everyone.
“You ever taught a painting class?” Chloe asks me, breezing toward the front of the room and reaching for a paint-splattered apron. She pulls the apron over her head and ties it behind her back, protecting her grey sweater and jeans from colorful spills.
“Do I look like I’ve ever taught a painting class?”
She eyes my outfit, the outfit I’ve been wearing for over twenty-four hours now because I never ended up leaving her house after I got her settled in bed. I couldn’t bring myself to, too worried about the man who drugged her following us home or someone taking advantage of her in her delirious state.
She reaches for another paint-stained apron on the wall, extending it in my direction with a smile. “Put this on.” Our fingers graze when I take it from her, the inextinguishable fire between our skin burning me, even with the new knowledge of how far her web is weaved.
“And lighten up,” she demands. “You might be hot shit out on the street, but you’re an outcast here. The kids need to trust you.”
I swallow as I lift the apron over my head and tie it behind my back.
I feel so incredibly out of my element. I don’t spend time with kids. I don’t paint. I haven’t spent time in a domestic violence shelter aside from the few times when I was a beat cop and was called here to take statements.
The women were wary of us, and we were mostly limited in our capabilities. I always left feeling like I’d failed them, and their children.
“Miss Chloe!” A gaggle of tiny children swarm through the doors, rushing across the room with flailing arms as they pile around Chloe’s waist.
“Oh my gosh,” Chloe exclaims, her hand lain across their backs. “I missed you guys! Are you ready to paint?”
A song ofyaysandyessessweeps through the air as the kids jump in excitement. They disperse throughout the room to find chairs and pull on their own aprons that are draped over the backs.
A few women slowly stream into the room, sending suspicious glances in my direction as I stand awkwardly off to the side. Most of them look absolutely drained, dark circles under their eyes and their bodies covered from wrist to ankle by their sweaters and leggings. I consider the likelihood that this shelter might be their first opportunity for a full night’s comfortable sleep in a long while.
“This is my friend, Colin,” Chloe says to the room, emphasizing the wordfriendfor the benefit of the women in the back, probably. “He’s adetective,” she sings to the kids, which results in a lot ofoohsandahhsthroughout the little crowd, making my lips tilt into a smile. I wave to the group and give my friendliest, most docile nod to the mothers stationed at the back of the room.
“Today we’re going to paint two things.” Chloe crosses the room to the table with the brushes and paints on it, encouraging me to follow. She shoves some items into my arms before pushing me toward the group as she explains what they’ll be painting today.
“Colin,” she says from the front of the room, “what’s your favorite animal?”
I freeze, feeling put on the spot. “Uhm, a panda bear.”
Chloe’s head falls back as she lets out a laugh, and the kids in the room giggle, everyone clearly surprised by my answer.
“And your favorite flower?”
“My favorite flower,” I repeat. The kids stare up at me in awe, on the edge of their seats for whatever I’m going to say next. “A dandelion.”
