Page 17 of Drawn to Death
I don’t know what that means for either of us. But when I meet his gaze, steady and unwavering, I know we both cross a line.
And honestly, that scares me more than anything else ever has.
Chapter nine
Talon
The key to the safe house sticks, just for a second, the same way it always does when the air outside gets heavy and wet. I twist harder, feeling that familiar snag, and then the lock gives way. My watch says 11:30 PM. Later than I meant to be back. But Vincenzo wouldn't stop calling.
He wanted an update on Quell, yeah, but mostly he wanted me to take other jobs. I think he's missed me while I've been obsessing over Quell. So instead of answering him, I did some other work, just so I would have something different to update him about
So I did some stalking. Not because I wanted to keep Vincenzo happy, but because I wanted to keep him from thinking about Quell.
Maybe if Quell disappeared, stopped posting his art, everyone would forget about him.
My shoulders ache from hours hunched in surveillance, keeping eyes on people who aren’t Quell. The thought of him waiting behind the door makes my chest pull tight, a feeling Idon’t want to look at too closely. I slip inside, quiet as always, though a part of me hopes he hears me.
The safe house is dark. Just a thin line of light under Quell’s door. I stand in the hallway and listen. Nothing. Only the refrigerator’s low hum and the soft, steady tick of the wall clock. Time moving on, even though everything else feels like it’s coming apart.
I set my bag down without a sound. First thing, the gun goes into the lockbox. I’ve started keeping it away from myself here. Not because I think Quell will touch it. More because I don’t want him to see me as just another weapon. Like that’s all I am.
The bolt slides back, and my hand hovers on the bedroom doorknob. This is a ritual now. These last few days, I've been checking on him before I do anything else. Just to be sure. Just to see him. I tell myself it’s about security, keeping tabs on my… asset. But every night, that excuse gets a little harder to believe.
I ease the door open, just a sliver at first, then a little wider. The bedside lamp is on, casting soft shadows across the room and catching the figure on the bed. Quell sits propped against the headboard, knees up, the sketchbook I bought him balanced on his thighs. His hair is falling forward, hiding his eyes, his hand moving over the page, quick and sure. He doesn’t notice me yet. Or maybe he does.
I watch him for a second. The pencil spins between his fingers, leaving graphite smudges on his knuckles. His breathing is steady. Deep. He looks… peaceful, drawing like that. Even here. Even as my prisoner. Not that the word fits anymore. It hasn’t, not for days.
“You’re back,” he says, still not looking up. So he knows I’m here after all.
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough, more than I mean. I clear my throat. “It’s late. You should be sleeping.”
“It's hard to sleep when you’re not here.” He says it as if it's nothing, just a fact, like the weather. But it lands somewhere under my ribs, sharp and dull all at once.
I step in, closing the door behind me. The room feels smaller; the air feels heavier. I keep to the wall, leaning back. Close enough to see the lines of his drawing, far enough not to reach for him. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. Measuring distance. Making sure it’s enough for both of us.
“Where were you?” He finally looks up, pencil pausing mid-line. The lamplight catches in his eyes, turning them amber, not brown. “All day. You were gone all day.”
“Work.” It comes out without thinking. Like a reflex.
“Did you kill someone?” It's not an accusation, just the same plain question, steady as clockwork. He has asked it every night since I brought him here. Like it’s normal. Like it’s no different than asking if I’ve answered emails or picked up groceries.
I could lie about where I've been; what I will eventually do to the banker. He already knows it. I can't lie about death, but it would be easy to lie about. He wouldn’t know that. But something has shifted between us. The drawings, the long quiet nights, the way he looks at me like he already knows exactly what I’ve done, it makes lying seem a waste of time.
“No,” I answer with a slight smile. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
The words just sit there. Heavier than they should be. True, but still a confession. I haven’t killed anyone for nine days. Not since he arrived. But planning to kill someone felt just as guilty.
“Nine days?” Quell’s pencil stills. He tips his head, studying me the way he studies his sketches before committing them to paper. Taking in every angle. Memorizing the lines of me. “Because of me?”
“Yeah.” I shift, suddenly aware of how I’m standing, where my hands are. I never think about things like that. Never second-guess my own body. But his eyes make me notice everything, allat once. It’s been our routine. I tell him when to get up, bring him three meals a day, plus snacks and tea with honey, just as he likes it. Each day I collect his washing. I packed him four sets to rotate through the washing cycle. Each night I tell him to go to bed. The rest of the time, he is free to draw. He’s getting quite good at perfecting the wall outside his window, but I’ve been bringing him animal pictures to inspire something more pleasant.
He looks healthier. No one should look healthier being held prisoner in a small room than they do living a free and normal life, but Quell is benefiting from twenty-four-hour care. I’m enjoying it too; it reminds me of the old days before I became Talon the killer.
“Why?” he asks. “Why haven’t you done the one I drew yet?”
I don’t answer right away. I’m not sure I have an answer that makes sense, even to myself. If I don’t kill the banker, his dream will never come true. I need to know whether it's possible.
Over the afternoon, Vincenzo called twice with jobs. I told him I’m working on something bigger. The Quell situation. He’s given me space for now. Time. It won’t last forever, but I know it's the right answer, because Quell hasn't dreamed about the people Vincenzo wants gone. Clearly, they aren’t mine to take.
