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That memory has me turning and hightailing it back into the house.
It seems dumb to run up to the room I spent so much time locked in, so I just kinda linger in the main entryway, watching the security guy go up and down the stairs with all my worldly goods.
When he comes in for the last time, carryingthe painting, I stop him.
“Oh, um, can I have that?”
I almost expect him to deny me, but he doesn’t so much as shrug. He just hands it over.
Then he’s gone, and I’m alone.
I stare at the canvas in my grip. And I know what I need to do. I need to destroy it.
* * *
“Oh, come on!”I fling open another kitchen drawer, but I can’t find so much as a single match. “Who doesn’t keep a lighter in their kitchen?”
Rich people, whose expensive gas stovetops light on the first try, that’s who.
Tapping my fingertips on the countertop, I remember the firepit I saw in the backyard.
Maybe there’s a lighter out there?
The sun has officially set, but there’s enough outdoor lighting around the house that I don’t feel like I need a flashlight. Not that I’ve found one of those either.
I hold my breath as I reach for the handle on the doors that lead from the kitchen to the backyard. Exhaling when it opens.
Slipping outside, I shut the door quietly behind me.
I take a few steps before I stop, looking along the back of the house to where I think King’s office is.
I’m not trying to run away. But I still don’t want him to see me. I’d give it a fifty-fifty chance that he wants to keep this damn painting, and I’m not taking that chance.
It needs to go.
I watch for movement in windows, as I slink to the firepit.
The edges are built up with stonework that matches the outside of the house and it’s surrounded with seating and planters filled with blooming flowers. But when I get close enough to look into the pit, I see a pile of fake logs on top of sparkling glass.
Okay, so it’s a gas fireplace. Fine. I’ll just hold the painting over the flames.
Except…Fucking hell,you can’t be serious! There’s no switch. No button. No remote. No way to turn it on.
Groaning, I look back to the house. The control has got to be somewhere inside. But what am I gonna do? Flip every switch I can find then come back out to see if it worked?
Turning away from the house, I bite back the urge to scream and consider my options.
If burning is off the table that really only leaves me with one. Burying it.
The three foot by three foot frame is a bit big for burying by hand, but I can bust it up first.
The idea of bashing it against a tree has merit, and I feel a little touch of hope as I pick my way through the carefully trimmed bushes.
The air is scented with summer flowers, and I make a mental note to hunt down some coffee tomorrow morning and drink it out here.
I’ve been so traumatized these last few days I haven’t even been able to feed my caffeine addiction.
I pass another flower bed, noticing the mulch circling the stems. If worse turns to desperate, the gardens should have dirt that’s easy to dig. But I decide to go out further, past the gardens, past the lawn, and into the woods.
