Page 18 of Drawn to Death
“Just haven’t wanted to,” I say finally. It’s an incomplete truth.
Quell nods slowly, like he’s working out a puzzle. “Is it because of me? Because I see what you do?”
That’s too direct. Too close to a truth I haven’t even admitted to myself. I move to the window instead of answering, checking the pointing between the bricks for no reason other than to break the odd feeling between us. Empty. Quiet. Safe. He follows me and stands there next to me, close enough to touch.
“I had a dream last night,” he says, when I don’t respond. “A vision, I think.”
My shoulders tense. I turn back to him, watching his face. “About what?”
He hesitates, then flips back a page in his sketchbook. “About this.”
He holds out the book. I cross the room and take it, careful not to let our fingers touch. The drawing shows a man standing with his back to me, half turning, face full of fear as a knife covers the top half of the page.
Like I… or the killer… crept up behind him, and he turned one second before having his throat slit.
I recognize the face right away. Mickey Jameson. Not a mark. A friend. Or, you know, as close as someone like me gets to friends. He does logistics for Vincenzo, moves cash, keeps things from getting messy. He set up safe houses for me before. Bailed me out more than once.
“You know him,” Quell asks, though it's not really a question.
“Yeah.” My voice sounds flat, even to me. “He’s not a target.”
“He will be.” Quell’s voice is soft, almost sorry. “It always happens. What I see… it always happens.”
I look at the drawing again. Mickey’s face, every detail right. The tiny scar above his left eyebrow from a bar fight years ago. The crooked nose he never fixed. The tired look in his eyes.
“No,” I say, sharper than I mean. “Not this one.”
Quell doesn’t argue. He just looks at me like he’s heard it all before. People not wanting to believe him. People thinking they can change what’s coming.
“When did you draw this?” I ask.
“Last night. After you left.” He takes the sketchbook back, his fingers brushing mine. The touch sends a jolt up my arm, sharp and bright. “There’s something else.”
His cheeks go pink, starting at his neck and working up. I’ve never seen him blush before. It makes him look soft, almost breakable. I want to see it again.
“What?” My voice drops.
He hesitates, then turns the page. “This.”
For a second, my brain just… stops. The angle is wrong, not looming over a body, but close, so close. Two people, faces almost touching. Eyes shut. Lips meeting.
Us.
Me and Quell. Kissing.
The detail is brutal, impossible to mistake. My jaw, set hard. Quell’s eyebrows, drawn tight in a frown. My hand cupping his cheek, fingers buried in his hair. His fist gripping my shirt, dragging me in.
Heat hits me, fast and embarrassing. I step back, but I can’t tear my gaze away from the page. From what it shows. Something I barely let myself imagine, laid out in black and white.
“I don’t understand,” I say. It's a lie. I understand exactly. I just don’t know what the hell to do about it.
“Neither do I.” Quell’s voice is thin, almost lost. “It’s not like the others. Not a death. But it felt the same when it hit me. Real. Like it’s going to happen, not just something I make up.”
I make myself look at him, not the drawing. His eyes are huge, uncertain, but not scared. He’s waiting. For me to laugh, or yell, or tell him he’s wrong.
Instead, I say, “Did you like it?”
It catches us both off guard. I didn’t mean to say it. Too blunt. Too real.
