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MIA
After I reach the haunted house, I realize with a bit of shame that I don’t actually have a key.
Well, screw that.
I’m not going back home now that I’m here.
After a slight maneuver, I park my car near the gate, hop on top of the hood, then climb the metal bars and jump down on the other side.
My legs take the hit, but I’m good. I stare at my phone one last time in case Landon has graced me with a reply.
Nope.
Nothing.
My feet come to a slow halt at the front garden. My flowers are slowly growing. One of them, a lone blue gentian flower, is blooming.
It’s not a coincidence.
I can’t believe Landon, who proudly confessed that he’s the enemy of everything flora and fauna, has not only been watering the flowers, but he’s also trimmed the grass around it and removed the parasites.
I crouch in front of them and gently run my fingers along the seams of a bloom, my heart squeezing for an unknown reason.
Why do I feel so embarrassingly hollow all of a sudden?
After I apologize to the flowers for not visiting sooner, I head to the door and reach into the deep hole in the tree where Landon hides the spare key.
A smile pulls on my lips when I find it, then use it to get inside. My mouth hangs open when I see the interior of the house.
Or more like, renovated interior.
Aside from the new furniture, there’s a new wooden floor, windows, and elegant muslin curtains.
The renovated Victorian balcony overlooks a newly mowed back garden. The fallen branches and grotesque trees have disappeared. Instead, the view is much more manicured, elegant, even.
The fact that Landon still made these changes even though I was boycotting this place warms my heart.
I walk into his studio, expecting to find new creations. However, the place is creepily the same as I left it over three weeks ago.
The same half-finished statue of a woman fighting a demon. A man screaming into his own ear. A demon drowning in a pool of his disfigured face.
Landon’s art is the same as the man himself. Unpredictable, thought-provoking, and, most importantly, intense.
The only thing different is a statue in the corner, covered by a white sheet.
I remove it with an unsteady hand. Sure enough, I’m staring at myself.
Standing only in panties, I’m glaring down and holding up two middle fingers. My lips part when I realize Lan replicated my look from when he first chased me up to the roof.
I get closer, my heart beating so loud, I hear the rush of blood in my ears. His attention to the details grips me in a merciless chokehold.
He didn’t miss a single element from that day. Not my curved lashes, the ribbons tangled in my hair, the lines of my collarbone, the slope of my breasts, the hard nipples, the creases in my panties, and even the chains on my boots.
The closer I study it, the deeper I’m pulled into the lethal beauty that stares back at me. This feeling isn’t because I’m looking at myself. No. It’s because Landon’s hands made this.
I don’t even know when he had the time to perfect this…I have no clue what to call it. A masterpiece seems too generic. Too little to encompass the meaning behind what his hands made.
I touch her cheek to make sure it’s real and I’m not, in fact, imagining myself as a statue.
