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What catches my attention, however, is the desk in another corner topped by a few books.
I tiptoe in its direction and read the titles of books mostly written by artists and professionals in the sculpting scene.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a notepad. After casting a fleeting glance on either side of me, I open it.
The pictures that greet me rob my lungs of their last breaths.
3D statues lie in front of me, glorious in their details and absolutely stunning in their elegant disposal.
One pattern that exists throughout the notepad strikes me.
None of them have faces.
Some are half finished like the statues in the haunted house, as if he couldn’t find the right image to draw, but most of them have been left blank.
As I go farther, I notice a few silhouettes of absolute chaos—intertwined circles, crossed lines, and meaningless figures.
The stark difference between these objects and the perfect statues is so jarring that I double- and triple-check them. It’s impossible to believe both were made by the same person.
Maybe he was in a different state of mind when he sketched these.
I run my fingers over the intertwined lines. What was he thinking of when he drew these? Usually, he’s focused to a fault during the creation process—posture erect, eyes like a hawk, and lips slightly parted.
Art mode looks brutally elegant on him.
I have no idea why I want to see him when he’s making these loops of nothingness. Maybe it’s because this is the first time I’ve noticed a break in his perfectly perfect façade.
Landon can get petty, antagonist, and absolutely insufferable, but I’ve never actually seen him angry. Maybe he doesn’t even know what anger is.
Movement comes from behind the door and I return the notebook to where I found it and frantically search the room for a place to hide.
Shoot. None of the furniture is able to camouflage me.
The door opens and I jump behind the tall curtains and catch my breath. The balcony door behind me is open and the chill seeps into my bones.
Footsteps shuffle into the room, and I don’t have to guess. It’s Landon. I couldn’t mistake him for anyone else when my lungs are filled with his delicious smell.
Other footsteps follow. “You haven’t been around.”
A feminine voice.
And it’s not Ava’s, Cecily’s, or his sister Glyn’s. I’ve heard all their voices and they don’t sound snotty like this one.
“Didn’t feel the need to be around,” Landon replies in his signature sarcastic, bored voice.
“You can’t do this. We agreed about our next hit.”
I notice that I’ve been balling my hands into fists ever since I heard the girl’s voice and slowly release them.
I need to be calm. After all, this is my chance to do what I came here for—spy on the asshole.
“Our next what?”
“We agreed we’d slash their tires this weekend.”
“We did?”
“Yes! Everyone is waiting for their orders. We need to sit down and plan this thoroughly.”
