Page 664 of End Game

None of it accounted for the reality of Dex standing in our kitchen dressed like Tigger with eyeliner and orange facepaint.

I should have accounted for that.

“Sit down.”

His eyebrows climb. “Oh?”

“Not like that.”

“Do I know what you're about to do?”

“No.”

“Should I?”

“No.”

“Are you going to tie me up before the Halloween party?”

“No.”

He gives me an exaggerated pout. “Worst proposal ever.”

My body locks before I can stop it.

Dex pauses.

We stare at each other.

Then he laughs. “Jesus, your face.”

My lungs have temporarily stopped cooperating.

“Sorry. Sorry.” He drops onto one of the stools at the island. “You said sit down in your boss voice. My brain went places.”

I keep looking at him.

His laugh fades. “What?”

Instead of answering, I reach behind the cereal boxes on top of the refrigerator and pull down the portfolio.

It's black leather, roughly the size of a hardcover book, tied closed with a thin cord.

Dex stares at it. “What's that?”

“Open it.”

He takes it carefully.

The first drawing is old.

Years old.

Dex asleep on the couch, one arm hanging over the edge, his hair longer than it is now. I drew only his upper body and the mess of pillows behind him.

His thumb stills against the page. “Did you draw this?”

“Apparently.”