Page 70 of Inflict

“Aye, but it goes without saying.”

Seemingly satisfied with Connor’s answers, Evelyn pushed off the window bench and landed damn near silently on her feet. She headed for the door, apparently done.

“You’re not going to let me see the drawing?” Connor asked.

Evelyn froze, turning slightly as she hugged the sketchbook even tighter. “No.”

“Why not?”

“We’re different, you and I, but we’re still the same. You won’t like it, Connor, because you won’t agree with how I see you. You’ll think the image I see doesn’t reflect who you believe you are, or the person you look at that is staring back at you every day. Just like I don’t see the same reflection staring at me in the mirror that you do when you look at me.”

“I don’t know if that’s true, love.”

Evelyn nodded once, and then flipped her sketchbook over to show him the image. There was an almost defiance to her actions, like she was doing it, only to dare him to prove her words wrong. The fire in her gaze remained as she held the image on her sketchbook steady, both proud yet scared of her own work.

And she was right, he realized.

He actually realized it quickly.

Her drawing was beautiful. Perfect lines, exact precision in detail. She’d caught the shape of his sharp cheekbones even beneath his beard, and the strong lines of his jaw with his head tilted just a bit to the side. The shape of his lips, though not set in a line as usual, curved at the corners almost teasing smile as he stared, unhidden and open, at the person beyond the paper.

Her, he knew.

He was staring at her.

The slightly longer bit of hair atop his head was both smooth and messy, like he’d run his fingers through the brown strands to push it back, but the waviness was still out of control. Each mark on his skin, the scar that split his left eyebrow, and even the dimple in his right cheek were perfectly reflected in the image.

She had left nothing out.

The tattoos up his neck were amazing in detail, from the rush of a wave along the left side, to the image of the Virgin Mother Mary on the right. And though he hadn’t been sitting the way she portrayed him, he was leaning forward a bit, his hand outstretched, with a feather resting on top of the shamrock scar in his palm.

In her image, he was holding her—his light, wee feather—in the palm of his hand.

The drawing was amazing.

Evelyn and her talent was amazing.

But she was right.

The playful, relaxed, handsomely happy man she saw, was not the man Connor believed himself to be when he stared in the mirror. He saw his marks and scars and tied them to memories. His eyes never shone quite like she thought they did, because his monsters were always too close to the surface, ready to explode from his mind.

“You made me look …” Connor trailed off, unable to find the right words.

Evelyn ticked her chin up, bold and sweet at the same time. “I see you exactly as you are. I made you look exactly as you are. I never thought you’d like it, though. Don’t forget, I told you that you wouldn’t like it.”

With that, she turned and left the room.

Connor let her.

• • •

Connor tinkered away at his Harley, the makeshift mat he’d made out of a blanket doing practically nothing to act as a buffer between his back and the hard ground. The motorcycle didn’t really need work or tuning, but sometimes it was good for him to clear his head by looking at something other than his drawings or the television.

He wasn’t entirely sure what made him tip his head up to look toward the brownstone, but when Connor did, he found Evelyn standing in the back doorway. She was staring out at him, but stood far enough back to be nearly hidden by the shadows.

As though she was scared to move further …

“You need something, love?”