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It’s Erick, the version that lives in my mind. Beautiful and terrifying. Standing between me and freedom. Not quite here, his back turned to me, something held in reserve, but still fascinating.
I stare at that painting for a while, trying to decide if I want this man, or if I want what he can give me.
This studio, this space, all the money and privilege. Marina and her food, the ease of a life wanting for nothing.
I could stay here. What’s there waiting for me out in the real world? That paint and sip job? A few friends? No father, no grandmother, no family at all, just an empty void where my life should be.
That’s the worst part of this captivity.
I want to stay.
I shove the painting onto the easel. I crack open more paint and start to slash at what I did yesterday, covering it with reds and blues and violets, until it’s an abstract mess, like a Jackson Pollock on methamphetamine. I stand back, breathing hard, hating Erick and wanting him all at once. Hating the painting, but amazed that something so beautiful could come out of me.
I hide it again before it can dry.
If he finds it and realizes what it means, he might use it against me.
And I can’t let that happen.
Chapter24
Hellie
We have dinner together that night. Marina makes chicken piccata and it’s absolutely incredible. Erick opens a very nice bottle of wine. “Here’s to the artist,” he says, raising his glass.
I drink long, and a pleasant bloom fills my belly. “Here’s to the man keeping me in life.”
He laughs at that as if it’s a joke.
After we’re finished and Marina’s doing the dishes, I follow him up to the studio.
“I hate to say it, but we’d better pick out the next painting.”
“What happened to never making me do another?”
His expression darkens. “Not an option. You had a couple days off, but you only have a month for this one.”
“Right.” I take a deep breath and blow it. “A month should be okay, right?”
“You tell me.”
“I think it’s fine. Two would be better. But one is fine.” I linger near the windows. It’s dark in the desert. I can’t see any lights—which means civilization is a long way off. My prison is all open space.
“I’m thinking since you started with the Vermeer, you could do this one next.” He pulls the art reference book down and flips through it. “Sticking to my idea about the Gardner museum, this one was stolen in that heist, and it’s similar to the painting you just did.”
I shiver slightly and look over his shoulder. He lands on a portrait of two people—a man wearing black with a white ruffle at his neck, standing to the left, and a woman seated on the right, also with a white ruffle, wearing a dark-colored dress.
“Simple,” I say, tilting my head side to side. “This one’s by Rembrandt, right? You do realize it’s pretty intimidating trying to forge these old masters. Vermeer nearly killed me. I think Rembrandt might finish me off.”
“It’s no different. You can handle this, and besides, you have more time.”
“You don’t think it’s suspect, doing another painting like this? I mean, a Vermeer resurfaces, and now suddenly a Rembrandt too?”
“Maybe, maybe not. These were stolen in the same heist, so it would make sense if they were sold around the same time.”
I tap my lower lip, staring at the composition, my mind already reaching down to that flow state, grasping at it like a plant craning for sunlight. “There’s not a whole lot going on.” I squint, trying to look into the dark shadows behind the seated woman. “Tough to see the details. It looks unfinished.”
“Could be. You’re the expert.” He gazes at me. “What do you think?”
