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The paintbrush snaps easily in my hands. Like breaking a twig. The pieces bounce off the nearest wall, splattering yellowbefore they fall, and I’m a thousand times lighter as I grip the canvas. It’s mounted on wood, but it might as well have been made of wet tissue paper, it comes apart so easily. I tear it clean down the center, then fling both halves at the wall.

Crash.

Thump.

A glass jar judders off a nearby table and smashes to the floor. Turpentine spreads, and now I’m laughing, tearing, wrenching. As mad as everyone says. The tablecloth lands in a puddle of spilled liquid; I grip the flowers in one fist.

“Oh my god,” a voice says in the doorway, and I pause, heart thundering.

This is the problem with offering room and board: whoever you hire gets a front row seat to your bullshit. You can’t destroy your own studio without raising eyebrows. Not even if your awful painting deserves it.

“Forget the fruit,” I say after a beat, placing the flowers gingerly in their vase.

Will she tell the locals about this? Will they warn her about my so-called curse? Is Helen Turner afraid of me now too?

I turn slowly, dreading what I’ll find.

But my assistant beams at me, toffee eyes sparkling with humor. “That looked so therapeutic,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to smash up a room.”

Well, fuck. I can help with that. This whole building could use a friendly sledgehammer.

Wordlessly, I pick up the vase and hold it out. And my miraculous assistant puffs out a laugh then picks her way through the carnage, comingtowardme, not running away.

I don’t understand.

Broken glass crunches under her shoes. “Be careful,” I warn, far too late. For some reason, the thought of Helen Turner cutand bleeding, hurt because ofme, makes me want to slam my head on the heavy oak table.

Our fingers brush as she takes the flowers in their vase, and I hate that I stand up straighter. What am I, a blushing schoolboy?

Though I’m probably just shocked that she would willingly come so close. After all, I’m used to being judged for my scars and gruff words. Judged and avoided on sight.

But Helen clearly missed that memo. “Are you sure?” she asks, spinning the vase slowly between her palms. She hefts it carefully, judging the weight like an athlete, and squints at the far wall.

Christ. This woman.

“Do it.”

There’s a whistle of disturbed air, then the vase shatters against the wall. Flowers explode in a flurry of yellow petals; stems patter against the floor.Yes.

Helen’s breathing hard, and the pleased flush on her cheeks makes me want a fresh canvas, to really paint this time. She laughs and clutches her throat.

“That feltsogood, Mr Grangemoor.”

Damn.

I turn away, hiding my own heated face. It’s too stuffy in this building. We need to open more windows, because I—I can’t think like this with her so near.

“Leave me, please.”

There’s a huff of air. Shoes crunch over broken glass, and I stare out of the window at the low-lying mist until she’s gone. The door thumps closed, and I’m alone in my mess.

The air is too still in here, echoing with ghostly crashes. I draw in a ragged breath, then scratch my chin.

It’s fine. This is fine.

Alone is good. Alone is for the best.

My leg throbs like hell as I limp back to my dropped cane. There must be a dustpan and brush around here somewhere.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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