Page 4 of Drawn to Death
I put the page back and keep looking. On the kitchen counter: three mugs, each with a crust of dried tea at the bottom. A prescription bottle next to them. Sleeping pills. The heavy-duty kind. I make a note of the doctor’s name for later.
On the refrigerator, a single photograph is held up by a magnet: Quell with an arm around a guy about his age. A sibling, probably, or could be a lover. Both of them are smiling. The photo is creased, like it’s been handled a lot.
I touch it, tracing the outline of Quell’s face with my gloved finger. The smile in the picture isn’t anything like the tight, waryexpression I’ve seen through my lens. This is from before. Before the dreams. Before it all changed.
This is professional, I remind myself. Just gathering intel.
There’s a sketchbook open on the couch, a pencil marking the place. I pick it up, careful not to mess up how it’s left. The drawing on the page shows a woman on her knees, hands raised as if she’s begging. I recognize her right away. Eliza Mercer. Embezzler. I took her out in a parking garage six months ago. She begged too. They always do.
I flip backward through the pages. Every page is more death. Not just the ones Vincenzo shared with me, but others too. He must have been having these dreams for years before he started posting online. Some faces I recognize as my work. Others must be different killers. Vincenzo’s other “problem solvers.” All drawn with the same brutal detail, the same weird, impossible perspective.
My hands are steady. Inside though, something is off. There’s a tightness in my chest I don’t recognize. I don’t like it.
I set the sketchbook down exactly the way I found it and go for the black portfolio propped against the wall. It’s heavier than I expect, packed with loose pages. I bring it over to the coffee table and open it under the narrow beam of my penlight.
The drawings are stacked by date. I flip through them, one by one. My own work, most of it, and the more I look, the less I like what I see. Jenkins, the lawyer who got too curious. Donovan, the witness who couldn't keep his mouth shut. Li, the accountant who found the wrong numbers.
All of them caught at the moment right before I ended them. All of them staring up at me, eyes wide, like they understand exactly what’s about to happen.
My pulse picks up. This isn’t surveillance footage. It isn’t a lucky guess. It’s something else.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs makes me stiffen. I glance at my watch. Too early for Quell to be up; his meds should keep him in a dreamless sleep for a few more hours yet. I’ve checked. I’ve timed it.
The footsteps are outside the apartment. My hand goes instinctively for my gun as I creep towards the front door. In all my time watching this place, I've not seen any evidence of another soul living here. The footsteps stop at Quell’s door and then continue down the hall. Must be a neighbor, a fact I need to check. Just because Vincenzo’s assignments are exclusive, it doesn't mean someone else isn't looking into this bizarre situation too.
I should kill Quell. That’s the job. That’s what Vincenzo wants. It would be easy. Wait here, lights off. One shot when he opens the door. Make it look sloppy, like a robbery gone bad. Done.
My hand drifts to my gun, fingers curling around the grip.
But the drawings will still be out there. The website. Even if Quell is gone, the questions won’t stop. Maybe it will get worse. I need to know what I’m dealing with before I stop this poor man from breathing.
That’s what I tell myself as I reach into my bag for the cameras. Just gathering intel. Just being careful.
I put one above the kitchen cabinets, angled so it catches the whole main room. Another goes in the smoke detector, pointed at the drawing table. The third is in the bedroom, tucked inside the ceiling light. That's the trickiest one, with a breathing man hidden under the covers, but I'm a pro at this. The final bug slides under the coffee table, sensitive enough to pick up a whisper.
Professional. Methodical. Nothing personal.
I’m nearly done when a loose sheet catches my eye. It’s slipped behind the drawing table, half-hidden by the radiator. I pick it up and turn it over.
My breath snags.
It’s a drawing. A man sits in a chair, wrists lashed to the arms with wire. His head hangs forward, blood trailing from a cut over his eye. Someone stands over him, holding pliers. The angle is all wrong, like it’s seen through the eyes of the person with the pliers.
Through my eyes.
But I haven’t done this job. Not yet. This is…
The job Vincenzo mentioned before sending me after Quell. A banker named Harris, skimming from one of our accounts. The job I’m supposed to handle next week.
I stare at the drawing, my mind racing. This man isn’t dead yet. This is something I can’t explain.
I should put it back. I should leave it where I found it. Instead, I fold the paper, careful, and slide it into my pocket. Evidence, I tell myself. Something to show Vincenzo.
But I already know that’s a lie.
I finish my work fast after that, erasing any sign I’ve been here. Straighten the portfolio. Adjust the sketchbook. Wipe away every fingerprint.
As I slip out through the window onto the fire escape, I pause and look back at the apartment. Through the gap in the curtains, I can see the drawing table where Quell works, turning nightmares into art.
