AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I leave. There’s no reason to linger. It’ll only torture her more.
But now I know her father is definitely in the city, and he contacted his daughter. I don’t know why or what he wants, but if I find him first, I can put this together.
I can fix this nightmare, but only if I keep holding on.
Chapter36
Hellie
Erick’s visit leaves me pretty fucked emotionally for the next couple days. I keep expecting him to show up and explain what’s happening, but he doesn’t bother. Which makes things so much worse. My father’s out there somewhere, and I don’t know if he’s living or dead at this point.
Instead, I resort to begging my stupid, mute guard Tony for information, which doesn’t go well.
“Please, pass a message on to Erick, Ren, or Marina. Please ask them for any information about my father.”
Tony stares like he doesn’t speak English. He’s just a giant wall of muscle and zero brains. Or maybe the guy’s a genius and knows better than to open his mouth.
“Come on, I know you understand me. Just pass the message along okay? I need to know what’s going on.”
He grunts. That’s the best I’ll get. That’s basically a full conversation, coming from Tony.
“Great, thanks, nice talking to you.”
He grunts again, which I assume is his native tongue forget back to work or I will break your knees.
I do as I’m told, or as I’m grunted at, even if it’s freaking hard. My intense focus seems to fail me as the days drag past.
I’m not sleeping well. Most nights, I stare at the ceiling thinking about Erick, and about my father, and about my life before all this happened. Could I have gone on like that, going to that awful job day after day, getting home too late and exhausted to work on my own art? Barely scraping by, never flourishing, not happy but not sad, just existing.
Sometimes I wonder if this is better.
If Tony actually does what I asked, I don’t get any reply—not from Erick, not from Marina, not from Ren. It’s still total silence, and I’m expected to paint under these conditions, despite this crippling anxiety.
My father’s out there, and Erick knows about it. Right now, the city’s crawling with Costa soldiers hunting for any sign of my old man, and there’s no way he can stay hidden under these circumstances.
Dad screwed up. I don’t know how or why, but he got caught, and if Gallo’s men are the ones that saw him, that means everyone knows about it. Gallo has no reason to keep it a secret.
It’s a race now. Only a matter of time.
I should’ve just told Erick what the email said at the beginning, but I couldn’t. That little bit of information might’ve been enough to use against him, and Erick said it himself. My father is not worth saving, not if killing him will avoid a gang war. Showing Erick the email would’ve been like handing over my dad, and I just couldn’t do it.
It’s easy calculus for him. But for me, it’s agony.
I’m a mess. A total wreck. I paint and paint, and the forgery’s coming along on schedule, but whenever I’m not actively working, I’m lying in my room and feeling like shit.
I wish someone would come explain what’s going on, but anytime I complain, Tony just glares at me like I’m a hungry mosquito and he’s ready to swat me dead.
The big useless bastard.
I keep going. I throw myself into the work like during that first painting and practically spend all day and night in front of the easel. I paint and paint until my hands cramp and I can’t paint anymore, but I keep going anyway. My head’s spinning, my fingers are chapped and bloody from washing them all the time, and the man and his wife begin to take shape. Light and shadows, black and white. I obsess over contrasts, over paint colors, over facial expressions. It takes me three whole days to get the wife’s nose correct.
But soon, it’s nearly complete, and my dread grows with each brush stroke. It takes some effort to identify the feeling, but soon it’s clear that I’m afraid to be done, because once I’m done, I won’t have anything left to distract me.
Day and night, I’m obsessing. The floor, the chair, the strange map thing hanging on the wall. The frills, the cloaks. The glove dangling from the husband’s hand. His pointy little chin hair. Until one morning, I step back after an entire night of doing fine details, my eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, my hair a mess, paint caking my fingertips, sick from putting on the little finishing touches to make it look as real as possible—emulating brushstrokes, reproducing small mistakes—until I realize there’s nothing else to do.
It’s like a chasm opens under my feet.
There’s a loud knock then the door to my studio opens.
