Page 19 of Drawn to Death
Quell’s cheeks go even redder. He ducks his head, glances at the sketch, then back up at me. He simply nods. “Yes.”
Just that. Three letters. It hits me harder than I expect. People fear me, respect me, even admire my work from a safe distance. But nobody ever wants me. Not like this. Not knowing everything about me, about what I do.
I take the sketchbook back, this time making sure our fingers brush. I let it linger, just a second longer. His skin is warm and soft. Not a killer’s hands. An artist’s.
I look at the two drawings side by side. Mickey in his final moment. Quell and me, tangled together.
Two futures. Both of them are impossible, in their own ways.
“If these both happen,” I tell him slowly, “it’s a problem for me.”
Quell curls up tighter, hugging his knees. “Why?”
"Because I don't want to kill Mickey." I meet his eyes and try not to look away. "But I do want to kiss you."
The words just sit there, heavy and awkward, like I’ve broken something between us that can’t be fixed. I never talk like this. Don’t let myself. But Quell has been in my head. He’s seen what I’ve done, the things I’ve had to do, and he still looks at me like I’m something else. Something better. What’s the point of pretending?
"So don't kill Mickey," he says, like it’s just that easy.
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
I shut the sketchbook and hand it back. Our fingers touch again, and this time neither of us moves away. Not right away. "Because what you see always happens."
"Not always." His voice is quiet, but he doesn’t sound like he’s guessing. He sounds sure. "Things change. They have to."
"How do you know?"
"I've never drawn myself before." He puts the sketchbook aside. Then he shifts, feet on the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed. Closer now. Close enough that I could touch him if I wanted. If I dare. "I've never been in the visions. Not until now."
I don’t move, though I want to. I want to step toward him, or maybe away, or maybe both at once. This is new ground. Not thekind you can fight your way through. It’s dangerous in a whole different way.
"So what does that mean?" I ask.
He shrugs. "I don't know." It’s so blunt, so honest, it almost makes me flinch. "But I think… maybe we get to choose. Which future happens."
That possibility just hovers there, thin as a soap bubble. The idea that it isn’t set in stone. That we can actually shape it. That we have a say.
I look at him, really look. The way his hair always slips into his eyes, the way his hands tremble if he thinks no one’s watching. The way he looks back at me, steady and unblinking, even after he knows what I am, what I’ve done.
Something shifts deep in my chest, like a plate sliding loose under the earth. I brought him here to figure him out. To take care of a problem. To make sure he doesn’t become a threat. I don’t plan on… wanting to keep him safe. Or wanting him to see me. Or wanting anything, really.
"And if I decide I want the second drawing to happen?" My voice barely makes it out, rough and low.
Quell’s breath stutters. Just a tiny hitch, but I notice. "Then it will."
The distance between us feels smaller, like the room is shrinking. My heart pounds so hard it’s almost embarrassing. This isn’t the plan. I don’t do connections. I don’t let people in. Especially not people who can see through me.
But here we are.
I step back, needing air, space to think. “I should let you sleep.”
A flicker of disappointment crosses his face, gone as quickly as it comes. He nods, not arguing. “Will you be here in the morning?”
“Yes.” That I can promise at least. “I’ll be here.”
I move to the door, guiding him back to the bedroom prison. I can feel his eyes on me the whole way. At the threshold, I stop and wait. He steps inside, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, hands folded, just watching me.
