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“Where the fuck do you keep going?” he demands. “What’s in that sick fuck mind of yours, Emerson? Do I need to cut it out?”
Would that it were so simple.
This is how it used to be with my father. I would try and try not to fight, and it would happen anyway. It would end with me in the closet. Panic chokes me. I swallow it. There will be no closet. There will be no worry about getting home. No more wondering when my father will appear on my doorstep. It will be a sweet, blessed mercy when I die. I won’t have to panic again. It’ll be dark and soft and safe. There have been times I wanted nothing else in the world. It’s ironic that Daphne’s brother is the one giving it to me.
I just want to be near her work.
If I can’t be with her, I want to feel her paintings. I’ll fall into one of those at the end and I won’t come out.
We’re both strong, but he has vengeance on his mind. A deep vengeance. There are layers to this that I’ll never unravel. I understand, dimly, that I’m paying for more than Daphne’s kidnapping. There are consequences for forcing people. People, not Daphne. A tell I’m certain he didn’t intend. He has personal experience with it, I think. It seems impossible, given how lethal he is. Ah—there was the error. He wasn’t always this way, was he? No. One came before the other. They’re blended together. Pain and violence.
I’m close enough to the gallery door to get it open. It comes at a cost. A fist driving into my ribs. Bruises my heart. But we tumble into the gallery. I get one hand to the wall and hit the switch. Just enough light to see her pieces. A dark, warm sensation reaches for me. Strokes my face. My little painter.
Leo probably deserves this victory. He deserves to cut my flesh and crush my bones. To kill me.
This is all I wanted.
It’s hard to lose. My body doesn’t want to let it happen. I do it in increments. I hold back, one moment at a time. He backs me toward the wall. Oh—his plan is to pin me there. To carve through muscle and bone.
I’m going to let him.
It’s all right, murmurs the ocean outside. Or maybe it’s one of the paintings. Or maybe it’s my own brain, trying to comfort me. It’ll be over soon.
I put my hands down.
Leo curls his fist into my shirt. I don’t bother to look for the knife. It’ll be hidden soon enough. Buried in skin.
Silver flashes.
The door to the gallery flies open so hard that the damper fails and it bangs against the wall. Daphne runs in, covering half the space in moments. There’s someone with her. A brother. Carter, from the photos.
“Stop,” my little painter shouts. Her voice is clear and firm and so beautiful my heart bursts. “Stop, Leo. Jesus. Stop right now.”
