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Blood.
It covered the surfaces of the room as if the room had been flooded and drained of it. Blood splattered the ceiling—more blood than any one person should have been able to lose. And in the center of the room, in pieces on the couch, rested a corpse.
Vincent didn’t lie to himself for one moment—didn’t even try to comfort Marco, who fell to his knees at the sight of his friend.
It took no more than ten heartbeats for Vincent to realize what this death meant.
He stormed out of the room, leaving his friend alone to grieve as he dialed Kiera’s number.
She didn’t answer.
9
The rug beneath Kiera’s knees began scratching at her skin, causing a mild discomfort as she knelt before her canvas. The brush in her hand, flecked with a dark and mysterious shade of brown, glided across the canvas with a smooth and steady trail of color. Eyes had always been one of her most difficult subjects, but the results never ceased to amaze her. She’d been working on the slight hitch of the bushy, black and gray eyebrow above the eye for… she didn’t know for how long. All perception of time fled when she painted.
All that remained was a feeling of contentment in her chest, which drove her to continue her craft. She was mesmerized by the canvas and the small details, which she could vividly envision in her mind’s eye.
A loud bang sounded on her door, and her paintbrush clattered into her tray of mixed paints. Loud and fierce, the pounding contrasted the silence she’d found in the apartment by herself. The feeling of contentment in her chest faded as she stared at the door, frozen in place.
Both roommates were at work and planned to return well after midnight. She glanced at the clock across the room and saw it was barely past nine o’clock.
“Kiera,” a deep voice bellowed from the other side of the door. A familiar one.
Something tight in her chest loosened as she pulled herself to her feet, taking some wobbly steps. The tension she’d created from sitting on her knees for so long caused a potent ache that she worked from her legs by the time she reached the door.
The pounding continued as she flung it open, raising her eyebrows and facing Vincent with her best “What the hell are you doing?” look. But as she took in his ruffled clothing and open expression of pure fear, she furrowed her brow, tilted her head, and stepped back to allow him inside wordlessly.
“I was going to ask what the hell you’re doing waking the neighbors,” she started, looking him up and down. From the time she’d known him, she had never seen him so harried. “But I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
When he entered her apartment, he didn’t take more than a moment to stop and examine her appearance—her short sleep shorts and long painting shirt—before rushing further inside, opening the doors to the bedrooms, closets, and bathroom. He even went as far as to check the cupboard beside the stove.
Kiera crossed her arms and waited for him to conclude his search. When his eyes finally focused on the painting, they stopped roaming. He stood and stared down at the small canvas, his back turned fully to Kiera.
A tendril of anxiety seeped into her at his scrutiny. She approached with soundless steps, stood at his side, and looked down at it alongside him. The silence deafened her as she contemplated how she’d explain it to him.
“It’s my eyes,” he said, his voice transitioning into something different than before.
“Yes,” she whispered, tightening her grip on both elbows as she cradled her arms before her. “Are you going to explain why you came barging at my door like a madman?” she asked, purposely changing topics. She didn’t want to explain that his eyes had been haunting her since they first met—that this was the only way she could get them out of her head.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” he said, not so much as glancing at her.
She looked toward her room, where her phone charged, out of her reach. She could never fully focus on painting when it was near.
“It’s charging,” she said. “Is there a reason you’re here, or…” She trailed off, giving her painting the same scrutiny that she had no doubt Vincent had been doing all along.
“Is it done?” he asked, ignoring her question entirely.
“Almost. It just needs a few finishing touches. The left eye needs… I don’t know. Something else. I was in the zone before you came, and I would have figured it out.”
Vincent didn’t speak for a long moment, and Kiera found herself getting jittery as he examined the painting, squatting to get a closer look.
“Would it help if I stayed?”
“You want to model for my painting?” she teased.
He shrugged heavily. She could see that he had other places to be. Judging by how quickly he stormed her apartment, the other places were likely urgent, but he still offered to stay.
When he didn’t reply, she spoke again. “I’d like it if you stayed,” she admitted.
