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I’m finally able to focus again, so the next couple of hours pass fairly quickly. I’m not aware of anything until I hear Caleb’s voice from the living room.
His tone has changed. It sounds rough and urgent. I put down my brush and hurry into the other room so I can learn what’s going on.
He’s concluding a phone call when I reach him. “They’ve got him cornered,” he tells me, looking more alert than I’ve seen him in two days.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. They think so. At a motel just outside town. I’ve sent Mick to help them. It should be over soon.”
“Oh my God,” I rasp, covering my stomach with one hand since it’s starting to churn with anxiety and hope. “I can’t believe it.”
“If we can catch him and pin the shooting on him, he’ll go away for a long time. You should be safe.”
“That would be amazing.” I don’t say it, but I wonder if it also means that Caleb will go away.
Surely not.
Surely what’s developed between us in the past month means the end of this job won’t be the end for us.
“What’s the matter?” he asks. “I thought you’d be relieved.”
“I am. Or rather I will be when it’s all finally over.”
He nods. “It sounds like it will be soon. I wanted to be the one to get him, but there’s no way I’m going to leave you alone.”
“You’re injured. You wouldn’t be going to get him anyway.” I probably shouldn’t have said that. It makes him grumpy again.
He scowls at me, and I scowl back.
The bathroom is calling, so I leave him alone in the living room.
He said it should be over soon.
Maybe it actually will be.
It will be nice when none of us is in danger anymore.
* * *
When I return from the bathroom, Caleb is no longer in the living room. I find him in the studio.
He’s got his headset on, obviously getting live updates on the situation from his teammates, but he’s staring fixedly at the canvas I’ve been working on.
The portrait of him, walking into the dark woods. His back toward me. Not even looking over his shoulder. Walking away into the bleak forest that swallows him up.
“What is this?” he demands thickly when I move beside him.
“It’s a painting.”
“Why are you painting this?” He sounds shocked. Tensely outraged.
“What do you mean?”
I know exactly what he means. He’s analyzed and interpreted the painting correctly. He knows it’s him. He understands the emotions behind it.
The guilt and loneliness and aching resignation.
He’s read all of it with an immediate, unnerving insight, and he can’t stand it.
