Andre was walking home from the studio on The Cut.
It was past eleven at night. He was exhausted, his muscles aching from hours of standing at the easel, but it was a good exhaustion. He was deep into the second series for the Paris collector. The creative confidence thathad returned with Blake’s reconciliation had never left him. The colors were coming alive, the colors vibrant and expressive.
He pulled the collar of his coat up against the damp chill, his head down, his mind already jumping ahead to the next morning’s work. He was thinking about the precise shade of cerulean he needed for the background of the second canvas.
He reached the intersection near Waterloo Station. The pedestrian light was green.
Andre stepped off the curb.
He didn’t see the car. He didn’t hear the engine over the sound of the rain and the traffic on the main road.
The car, a dark sedan moving far too fast for the wet conditions, ran the red light.
The impact was a sudden, violent explosion of sound and pain.
Andre didn’t even have time to register what was happening. One second he was thinking about cerulean blue, and the next, the world was unrecognizable. The heavy metal of the car’s bumper struck his hip, throwing him up onto the hood. His shoulder smashed into the windshield, the glass spider-webbing with a sickening crunch.
He was thrown through the air, a petrifying, weightless moment of freefall, before he hit the wet pavement.
He landed hard on his right side.
The pain was instantaneous and absolute. It was a blinding, white-hot agony that radiated from his right arm and hand, stealing the breath from his lungs. He heard a sound — a harsh, guttural scream — and realized a second later that it was coming from his own throat.
The car didn’t stop. The screech of tires echoed down the wet street as the driver accelerated, the red taillights disappearing into the London night.
Andre lay on the pavement, the rain falling on his face. He tried to move, to push himself up, but his right arm wouldn’t respond. He looked down, his vision swimming with dark spots.
His right hand — his painting hand — was bent at a grotesque, unnatural angle.
The pain surged again, a massive, overwhelming wave that dragged him under. The neon lights of the streetlamps blurred, the sound of the rain faded into a dull roar, and the world went entirely, mercifully black.
Blake was in Madrid.
It was the semifinal of the Madrid Open, a grueling, three-hour battle on the red clay against the world number five. Blake had just won the second set tiebreaker, forcing a decider. He was sitting on the bench during the changeover, a towel draped over his head, trying to slow his breathing.
Doug was sitting in the player box, his eyes fixed on Blake, his expression intense.
Blake reached for his water bottle, his chest still heaving from the second-set tiebreaker. Across the stadium, the chair umpire spoke briefly into the radio clipped beside his chair, his expression shifting almost imperceptibly.
A tournament supervisor appeared at the edge of the court and waited until the changeover clock ran down. Then he stepped forward and crouched beside Blake’s bench.
“Mr. Harlan,” he said quietly, professionally, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s been an emergency in London. Your family has been trying to reach you. You need to come with me immediately.”
For a second, Blake didn’t understand the words. Then his stomach dropped.
“Andre?” he asked.
The supervisor hesitated only a beat. “There’s been an accident.”
The noise of the stadium — the murmur of the crowd, the umpire calling time, the sound of his opponent bouncing the ball on the other side of the net — faded into a distant, meaningless whir.
Blake stood up.
He didn’t grab his racket. He didn’t look at his opponent. He walked straight to the umpire’s chair.
“I’m retiring,” Blake said, his voice completely flat.
The umpire, a seasoned veteran of the tour, looked at him in shock. “Mr. Harlan, you are about to start the third set. Are you injured? Do you need the trainer?”
