Page 140 of Brutal Truths

She doesn’t say more, just grabs her stuff and leaves.

That should’ve been my first sign that I am walking in on an ambush. You’d think that I’d recognize a set up when I see one, but I fail miserably every damn time.

The second I round the corner to Alma’s outdoor studio, I stop dead in my tracks. My eyes immediately close. “Bloody fucking hell.”

Alma lowers her brush and looks at me like I’m the problem. “Don’t start. It’s not easy doing this from memory. You should be my model.”

Gesturing toward the canvas without looking again, I say, “I’m not sure your granddaughter would approve.”

Tapping the tip of her brush against her chin, she hums, like I’m part of the project now. “I don’t need you fully nude. Just a bit of skin. We can be tasteful about it. Leave something to the imagination.”

Since living with Alma, I’ve been forced to stare at more knobs than I care to admit. The one I’m staring at now takes up the entire canvas, with the veins that line it almost perfectly. Her memory of one hasn’t failed her yet.

“Where do you want me?” I exhale accepting I’ve already lost the fight.

She rubs her hands together and points to the bench—blanket, a few pillows, everything conveniently there. Setting the painting of the knob aside, she picks up a blank canvas and waits for me to get situated.

I should’ve known. This wasn’t spontaneous. She’d planned this.

And like a sucker, I walked straight into it.

Isabel

I’m so tired.

A full week of shifts will do that. But I’ve got two days off ahead of me, and I fully intend to enjoy them with my husband and my grandmother. No guards hovering. No extra bodies. Just us.

I was about to text the nurse and tell her to take tomorrow off when she beats me to it. Guess Aiden had the same idea. He’s good at that. Handling things before I even think to.

Grams has been better lately. The new medication is helping to stabilize her disease. She still struggles, has rough days, but they’re not as frequent, and when she’s clear, she’s really clear. Happier. More herself.

She’s stopped asking about grandfather. It’s strange, the way her mind lets certain things go. I wish it didn’t happen that way, but I won’t pretend it hasn’t made things easier.

The car pulls up to our home, and I try—unsuccessfully—to stop my guards from getting out. “Aiden’s home. I can let myself in.”

Kym is out before I finish speaking.

“Or not,” I mutter.

Gracie follows right behind her, but not before she reminds me. “You know that’s not how it works.”

“It’s how it should work,” I say, even though I’m clearly talking to myself now.

By the time the door opens, I don’t bother rushing. I already know how this will go.

There was a time I could convince people I was the one in charge. I miss those days. These new guards aren’t buying it. They answer to one very demanding man who will fire them without a second chance if they break one of his precious rules.

I’m escorted all the way to the front door. Only left alone when Kym’s phone buzzes. His signal that they’re clear to step away.

“We’ll be at the guard station,” she says before locking up behind her.

I get it. After everything that happened, Aiden doesn’t take chances. And I’m grateful.

It just gets old fast. And it’s only going to get worse.

Kicking off my shoes, I head for the kitchen, following the smell of something amazing. Marian, our chef, is hard at work.

Having a chef is nice. Saves me from having to worry about feeding Grams. I know Aiden is capable, but he’s got enough on his plate, and this was one thing I could take off it. We still cook, just not on the days I work.