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“She’s been asleep for almost twelve hours now. I think her body’s a wreck.”
“I’m not surprised. She put herself through hell.”
“Five days of nothing but painting.” I laugh to myself, still insanely impressed. I don’t know anyone who could focus on a single difficult task for that long without going insane, but she was like a laser. It was beautiful, but a little terrifying—to her, the rest of the world ceased to exist.
She didn’t even know that I was taking care of her.
Day and night. I watched over her obsessively, lurking in the hallway, listening to her work. She whispered to herself as she painted, though it never made any sense, not to me at least. I still loved hearing her voice, loved watching her move around, thumping in the dark, staggering in the daylight, making something incredible from nothing but color.
I made sure she ate, got her to drink, showered her that one time. I put her to bed and woke her up. I reminded her to use the bathroom.
And through it all, she had no clue it was me.
“I’m a little worried about all this.” Ren glances at me, his frown deep. “She painted for five days and you did nothing but watch her.”
“That’s not true. I went into the office.”
“Once. You went in once. What’s it gonna be like if she’s doing this all the time, huh? You’ve got other responsibilities.”
I force myself to relax my jaw. He’s right, and getting pissed won’t help anything. “It won’t be like this again. We’ll go slower.”
He snorts, looking amused. “You really fucking think Frost is gonna ease up? Now that he knows the girl can make something likethat—” He nods at the painting, covered by a cloth. “—that’s his golden goose. His damn cash cow. He’s gonna keep on pushing her until she breaks down. That’s his goal from the start.”
“I won’t let him,” I say but a voice whispers that Ren’s right. Frost wants money, and he wants the girl dead. What better way to do it than to torture her with her own art? It’s actually kind of beautiful, but terrible all the same.
“Don’t forget what matters,” Ren warns.
And as we approach the meeting spot, I wonder what he means by that. If the family should be my focus, or if it’s Hellie that means the world.
Frost is waiting with three of his goons near a few empty tables next to the poker room. It’s a comfortable sitting room meant for the high-rollers, but it’s currently empty and semi-private. A squirrelly-looking man with a bald head and a tweed coat shifts from foot to foot, staring around him like a monster might jump from the shadows.
“Erick, how wonderful,” Frost says, shaking my hand. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” I turn the painting towards them, still covered.
“This is my art guy, Dr. Pedro Scratch.”
“You go to med school, huh, Doc?” Ren asks, giving him a vicious smile.
“Ah, no,” Pedro says, wilting somewhat. “I have a PhD in Art History from Yale.”
“Great, I’ll keep that in mind the next time I get stabbed.”
Frost waves Ren off. “Pedro here is going to tell me whether this scheme’s going to work. Isn’t that correct, Pedro?”
“Ah, I can take a look, but—”
“Good,” I say and pull off the cloth. “Have at it.”
Pedro’s jaw drops. He stares at Hellie’s masterpiece for a solid two minutes, saying nothing, not even moving. Frost is entranced too, along with the goons. Even Ren shifts around to get a better look, and I catch a few random passersby craning their necks to gawk.
Pride swells in me. Pride and fear. I knew the painting was good, but maybe it’s too good, and what Ren said is about to happen. Frost will see dollar signs, and nothing else will matter.
“It’s incredible,” Pedro whispers, looking up at me with panic in his eyes. “Are you sure this is a forgery? This isn’t some kind of test?”
“It’s fake,” I confirm. “I watched her do it.”
“Remarkable.”
