Page 39 of Drawn to Death
I try again. He deserves more than a life with someone like me. Better, but still too much. I scratch it out, pressing so hard the pen tears the paper.
Simple, then. Just the facts. Just what he’ll need to stay alive. I slip the note into his bag, beside the money and a single set of clothes. This is less than ideal. I could vanish in a heartbeat, but I need more time to get Quell to the same level of safety.
My hand finds the gun at my waist. The weight is familiar, grounding. I’ll need it, wherever I’m headed. Vincenzo’s reach is long. I slide it into my waistband, the metal cold against my skin. It’ll warm up. It always does.
I drift back to the spare room, drawn to Quell. He’s out cold. Completely vulnerable. Trusting. No idea I’m about to walk out of his life.
The stupid part? I don’t want to go. The realization hits me hard, sharp enough that I have to brace myself against the doorframe. This is supposed to be a job. Find the artist, silence him, move on. Simple. Clean. That’s what Vincenzo wants.
Instead, I’ve found something I didn’t know I needed. Someone who sees through all my careful disguises, all mydistance, and still wants me close. And now I’m going to leave him somewhere he doesn’t know.
If he’s safer without me… then that’s what he gets.
My eyes land on the sketchbook again, right where I left it. Something tugs at me. A detail I’ve missed. I pick it up, careful not to wake Quell, and flip through the pages. There are more. Five, six drawings, all the same image. Me, kneeling. The gun. That look of certainty.
I’ve seen enough of Quell’s visions to know what they mean. They always come true. Every single one. Which means that somewhere, somehow, I’m going to end up exactly like this. Not dying for him, not in the pictures, anyway. But ready to. Prepared.
I look at Quell, still asleep in the chair, then back at the drawing. Is this what I want? To vanish, to protect him by stepping out of the picture? Or am I just running from the fact that I’ve let someone matter, after years of empty space inside me?
Why does it feel like leaving would kill me more than staying ever could?
I set the sketchbook aside and wander into the kitchen. Grab the note from his bag and scrunch it up in my hand. Not yet. Not like this. I need to think. Need to be sure.
I go back to Quell’s room, dropping onto the floor beside Quell’s chair. He doesn’t move. His breathing’s slow and deep, the way it always does when he’s really out.
The air around him is thick with the smell of graphite and old tea. It’s as familiar now as gun oil and metal. My hands feel empty, restless. I was so certain just minutes ago. Leave. Disappear. Keep him safe by staying gone.
But the drawings keep tugging at my thoughts. Quell’s visions always come true. Always. Which means eventually I’ll be kneeling with a gun in my hand, ready to die, or disappear, orwhatever that look on my face means. If it’s going to happen anyway, does running now actually change anything?
Or am I just stealing what little time we have left?
I look at Quell’s sleeping face, memorizing every line, every shadow. The soft curve of his mouth. The furrow between his brows that never really goes away, not even in sleep. The graphite stains on his fingers, permanent after years of drawing.
A thought hits me, sudden and sharp: What if the vision isn’t set in stone? What if, just this once, knowing what’s coming could actually change things?
I’ve never believed in fate. Never trusted anything bigger than my own choices, my own actions. But Quell’s gift makes me question that. Makes me wonder what’s fixed, and what isn’t.
If I leave him now, am I just fulfilling the vision differently? Choosing a different kind of death, not physical, but something worse?
I reach out, brushing a strand of hair from Quell’s forehead. He doesn’t wake, somehow looking happy despite the slack muscles. Complete trust, even in a drugged sleep. It undoes something in me. No one’s ever looked at me the way he does. Like I’m something worth keeping, worth fighting for. Like the blood on my hands doesn’t matter, not in the way that counts.
Vincenzo will come for us, eventually. That’s a certainty I can't ignore. But I've faced worse odds before. We both have.
I settle back against the wall, watching Quell sleep. The go-bag is in the hallway, packed. The gun presses into my back, solid and familiar. I can still leave. Disappear.
But not yet. Not today.
The kitchen clock ticks in the distance, steady and slow. I listen to Quell's breathing, the small rustles as he shifts, the hush that fills the space between us. This moment right now isn’t much. Just quiet. Just stillness. The pause before a decision.
But it’s ours. And for now, that’s enough. I need to make sure he's safe before I leave him, and I know the place to take him so he can start over. All my savings and carefully set backup plans can give him the life it could never offer me.
Freedom.
Chapter twenty
Quell
The sketches haunt me, stuck behind my eyelids every time I blink. Talon’s face: calm, resigned, kneeling with the gun loose in his hand. I can’t shake it. The sketchbook is taped shut, shoved under the mattress, but the drawings still seep out, curling around my thoughts like smoke under a door. My hands won’t stop trembling. For the third time in an hour, I check the locks on the front door, rattling the handle. Still locked, still holding. The apartment doesn’t feel right. It’s too quiet, too empty, like it’s waiting for something awful.
