Page 29 of Drawn to Death
He shivers, looking down at the floor. “It’s not the same.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
That’s when I get it. It isn’t death that bothers him. Death is just a word, something he’s been seeing through me for years. But this, the mess, the smell, the real part of it, that is different. That is new. That is something his drawings have never given him.
“You need a shower,” I decide, finally letting go of his hair. My hand feels strange without it. “You’ve got blood on your clothes.”
He looks down at himself, eyes catching the spray for the first time. His fingers hover, not quite daring to touch the stains. “I didn’t feel it happen.”
“You were focused on other things.” The gun. The tension. The way Mickey looked at him, like he was something disposable.
Quell nods, faraway. Then his eyes drift back to Mickey’s body, stretched out on the plastic. “I’ll help you finish.”
“No.” I keep my voice steady. “Go shower. Use my bathroom. There are clean towels in the cabinet.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even try. Just nods and goes for the door, steps shaky but stubborn. At the threshold, he pauses, looking back at me. “I’m not afraid, you know. Of any of this. Of you.”
“I know.” I do. That is the problem.
He leaves. I turn to Mickey. The body is already cooling, going stiff. I work fast, wrapping him tight in plastic, sealing every edge with tape. Mechanical. Clean. My hands do what they know how to do.
Quell is sinking deeper into my world by the hour. Not just watching anymore. Doing. The way he stood through the kill, the way he tried to help with the body even while his body rebelled. He is adapting. Becoming part of this.
The only way to stop him from falling into my world is for me to step out. It's possible; it's just not something I've ever considered before. So why is it something I want now? Was it killing my friend, or saving my soul mate?
I don't believe in soul mates, but give me any other explanation for what he draws.
It should bother me. Instead, it feels… right. Like he fits here, with me, in this strange, blood-stained routine I call a life.
I press the last edge of plastic shut and straighten up, taking in the scene. Tidy. Quick. Mickey is just a package now, something to move and toss out. I’ll think about that later, after Vincenzo.
The idea of seeing Vincenzo sends a cold ripple through me. Not for myself; I’ve had Vincenzo angry at me before and walked away. But for Quell… I can’t guess how that will go. Vincenzo doesn’t trust anyone. He doesn’t forgive. He doesn’t make exceptions.
But he likes things that are useful.
I heave the wrapped body onto my shoulder. It's heavy, but nothing I can’t handle. The weight is familiar, almost soothing in how normal it feels. This part, at least, I understand.
I carry Mickey through the apartment and out to the garage, where my car is waiting. The trunk is already lined with plastic, a habit, not a hunch. I set the body inside, arranging it so nothing will roll around. Then I close the trunk and head back in.
The shower is still running. I can hear it from the hallway, a steady rush that makes the apartment seem less empty somehow. I lean against the wall, just listening to the water hitting tile, to Quell moving behind the curtain. Alive. Here.
I’ve killed for less than that.
The shower stops. After a couple of minutes, Quell comes out, wrapped in one of my towels. His hair is slicked back, water dripping down his neck. Without his glasses, his eyes look bigger, almost exposed. The steam has brought some color into his cheeks.
“Better?” I ask.
He nods. “I left my clothes on the floor. They had blood…”
“I’ll take care of it.” I push off the wall, already feeling the weight of the decision. “There are clean clothes on my bed. Get dressed. We leave in ten minutes.”
He just stands there for a second, studying my face. “Are you sure about this? Taking me to Vincenzo?”
“No.” I am not. “But I’m sure about one thing.”
He waits. “What’s that?”
“I’m not leaving you behind.” The words are out before I can stop them. I don’t usually say things like that. Not out loud. “You’re mine. I’m not letting you go.”
