Page 40 of Drawn to Death
Talon’s been gone for hours. The note said he needed to check on something, and he hoped to be back before I woke up. Sometimes it’s better not to know. But now the silence presses in, every creak in the walls making me jump.
I move from window to window, peeking through the blinds. The street looks normal. Cars, people, nothing weird. But that means nothing. Danger never comes with a warning. It slips in while you’re distracted.
“Get it together,” I mutter, pressing my forehead to the glass. My reflection stares back at me, pale and tired. There are graphite smudges on my cheek, my neck, my hands. I can’t remember the last time I was clean.
I push away from the window and go back to the front door. Check the deadbolt again. Still locked. I flip the chain, too. It’s flimsy, won’t stop anyone who really wants to get in, but it makes me feel a little better.
It’s not the drawing that gets to me. Not really. I’ve seen death before. I’ve been sketching it for years, the split second before, always through Talon’s eyes. But this? This is something else. In the vision, Talon isn’t doing the killing. He’s just… waiting. Accepting. His face has an awful calm to it, like he already knows what’s coming, like he’s settled it inside himself. Like he’s made his choice.
I’ve never sketched him like that before. Honestly, I didn’t know his face could even look that way, all the sharpness smoothed out, none of that constant alertness. It scares me more than any of the blood or violence ever has.
I drift into the kitchen, open the fridge, stare at everything inside. I’m not hungry. Just restless. I need to do something with my hands that isn’t picking up a pencil. I grab a glass, fill it with water, and try to take a sip. My throat is so tight I can barely swallow.
Then the doorbell rings, and the glass slips right out of my hand. It shatters on the floor, the sound slicing through the quiet like a gunshot. Water spreads everywhere, soaking my socks. I just stand there.
The bell rings again. Louder this time. Faster. My heart is pounding.
Talon wouldn’t ring. He has keys. He’d just come in, silent as ever, barely making a sound. And nobody else knows we’re here. Nobody else has this address.
I creep to the door, careful to avoid the glass, my wet socks leaving marks all over the floor. I peek through the peephole. The hallway is warped and blurry, but there’s a woman out there, waiting. She's wearing a pale blue uniform, all crisp and perfect. Bucket in one hand, cleaning supplies in the other.
She rings again. Three quick times. Like she’s getting annoyed.
I lean into the door, heart pounding. I should just walk away, pretend I never heard the knock. But something makes me undo the chain and thumb the deadbolt. Curiosity, maybe. Or the same sick urge that keeps me sketching deaths, even when the nightmares make me wake up screaming.
I crack the door, chain still across.
“Yes?” My voice is too high, too thin.
The woman smiles, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. “Maintenance. Your landlord sent me for the routine deep clean.” She lifts her bucket, a little apologetic. “Sorry for the drop-in. You should’ve gotten a notice.”
“I don’t think we got any notice,” I say. My voice is rough. But she seems familiar; maybe she’s been here before. My memory isn’t great, so it’s possible Talon’s been having the place cleaned for the whole time we’ve been here.
She shrugs. “They always forget. Can I come in? It Won’t take long.”
Every instinct tells me to slam the door in her face. Lock it, bolt it, run. But my hand just… doesn’t listen. I undo the chain, like I’m on autopilot. Maybe this was what Talon was planning. There are signs he’s been packing. We need to get rid of the evidence that we’ve been here before we leave.
“Sure,” I say, stepping aside. “Sorry for the mess.”
She slips in. Not just walks, but glides, like she already knows every inch of the place. I close the door behind her, my hand still on the knob, thinking: I could just push it open again, and bolt.But where would I go? And what if I’m wrong? What if she really is just here to clean?
“Kitchen first?” She asks, already heading there as if she knows her way around. Her shoes don’t even make a sound.
I trail after her, keeping a good two steps between us. “There’s broken glass,” I warn. “I dropped something.”
She glances down at the mess. “No problem. I’ll take care of it.”
She sets her bucket down, pulls out a cloth, and crouches to mop up the water. Every move she makes is tight, exact, like she’s practiced it a hundred times. She doesn’t move like a cleaner. More like someone pretending to be one.
“So you live here alone?” She asks, not looking at me.
My throat goes dry. “No. My… roommate’s out. He’ll be back soon.”
“Roommate,” she repeats, and I can’t tell if she’s amused or just doesn’t believe me. “Must be nice, having someone around.”
She finishes with the glass, drops the pieces in a little trash bag, and stands up. Her eyes sweep over the apartment, soaking in the details. The drawings on the walls, just landscapes, nothing weird. Then her gaze lands on the coffee table, where a pencil sits next to a half-finished sketch. Just a study of hands. Talon’s hands, actually, but she wouldn’t know that.
“You’re an artist,” she says.
