Page 22 of Drawn to Death
"Nothing to draw," I say. It's not a lie, not really. The visions don’t show up. Just that dream, still hanging around, faint as a memory.
He accepts this, nodding, and heads for the kitchen. I watch him unpack the shopping; pasta, sauce, a bottle of wine. Proper food, not the endless noodles. He moves with his usualprecision, but his shoulders look different tonight. Looser. Almost relaxed.
"I'll cook," he says. It isn’t a question.
I nod. The offer feels weirdly touching. "Can I help?"
He pauses, then hands me an onion and a knife. "Chop this. Small pieces."
We work together, not talking. The knife tapping the board fills the gap where words would go. My chopping is slow and uneven. He is fast, neat. But it works. Somehow, we fit. In this kitchen, in this moment, in whatever this life is.
Dinner is pasta with a sauce that tastes like it comes from someone’s mother. I watch him across the table. The way he eats, careful, barely making a sound. The way his eyes keep moving, never landing anywhere for long. Always checking. Always alert.
“Will you keep me?” The words tumble out, soft and half-dreamed, before I can catch them. “As long as I keep dreaming?”
He looks up. Fork in the air, like he’s forgotten what he’s doing. His eyes find mine. This time, he doesn’t look away.
“Yes,” he says. Barely a whisper. Maybe not even that.
It wasn't a proper answer. Not with everything between us. Mickey’s life. Talon’s people. The drawing of the kiss, still hanging there, promise or threat or both.
But it feels real. More real than anything else we’ve said.
He doesn’t explain. He never does. But as we clear the table, as the night thickens around us, as we drift through the apartment, something shifts. Something lands.
Later, in bed, I watch the shadows move on the ceiling and try to name what I’m feeling. I don’t want the dreams to stop. Not anymore. Not if stopping means leaving. Not if stopping means going back to that empty apartment, those empty days, that life where no one sees me. No one cares whether I wake up.
The nightmares are bad. The deaths hurt. The guilt of seeing through a killer’s eyes, the weight of Talon’s memories, I never shake that.
But when I close my eyes, I see his face. Feel the ghost of his sleeve on my arm. Hear his voice, “Yes,” like it’s the only word that matters.
Maybe the nightmares are worth it. If it means I don’t have to wake up alone.
Chapter eleven
Talon
My phone buzzes against the table; Vincenzo’s name flashes on the screen, urgent and red as a warning flare. I have been expecting it. Two weeks is pushing the limit, even for an assignment he lets me run this loose. I pick up the phone, feeling that familiar heaviness settle in my chest. The weight of lies I haven’t told yet.
“Talon.” Vincenzo’s voice is brisk, clipped, all business. “It's been a while.”
“Been working the situation like you asked,” I reply, keeping my tone flat. No warmth, no nerves. Just a professional, checking in.
Quell is in the kitchen, barefoot, hair rumpled from sleep. He reaches for a mug in the cabinet, moving easily, casually, like he belongs here. The mug hits the counter with a soft clink. Ordinary. Too ordinary for a place like this, with a man like me.
“And?” Vincenzo doesn’t do patience.
I watch Quell fill the kettle. Water splashes quietly. He looks back at me, catches my eye, and gives me that small, private smile. It twists something sharp inside me.
I look away. “He’s handled. No more art, no more leaks.”
The lie slides out smoothly, practiced. I have lied plenty before. But not like this. Not when the consequence is right here, breathing, alive.
“Good.” Vincenzo pauses. I can imagine him at his desk, fingers drumming out a rhythm, staring at nothing, seeing everything. “My guy will scrub the site. Every trace of him. Wouldn’t want anything… resurfacing.”
The way he lingers on that last word makes my skin prickle. Cold curiosity, like he is testing me, waiting to see if I’ll flinch.
Behind me, Quell’s footsteps pad softly across the floor. The fridge opens, then closes. The scratch of a spoon stirring tea. All these domestic sounds, settling in like they belong, even though this is a killer’s den. I never realized how empty it was before.
