Page 44 of Drawn to Death
“Quell.” I don’t touch him. Don’t try to comfort him. Just say his name in case he needs something to grab onto.
He doesn’t answer. Just stares, eyes rolling back, eyelids fluttering. Then his body goes loose and heavy, collapsing sideways like a puppet with the strings cut.
I catch him before he hits the floor, one arm behind his shoulders, the other steadying his head. He slumps against me, a solid heat and dead weight, his mind checked out. I lower him down carefully, making sure his head lands softly on the hardwood.
The room is quiet now, except for the slow drip of the kitchen faucet and Quell’s ragged breathing, rough but slowing now that he’s passed out. The cleaner’s body is still there, not far away, blood pooling out and going dark, sticky at the edges. Two bodies on my floor. One dead, one unconscious. And me, stillkneeling, still alive, when I’ve been so sure this day would end another way.
I straighten Quell’s glasses where they’ve gone crooked. He looks younger with his face slack, all the tension gone from his jaw and brow. The tear tracks on his cheeks are drying, leaving pale streaks behind.
“I’m sorry,” I say, though he can’t hear me. My hand brushes his cheek, just for a second, and then I let go. “For all of it.”
I pick up the gun from where it lands, check the safety, and tuck it into my waistband. The metal is warm, shaped by Quell’s grip. I can still feel the ghost of its weight against my forehead.
He didn't pull the trigger. He couldn't do it. Maybe that means something, maybe not. Either way, nothing changes. Vincenzo will send more cleaners. More killers. The dreams will keep coming. Quell will keep seeing things no one should have to see. And I’ll keep putting him in danger just by existing in his orbit.
I get up, my knees stiff from kneeling. For a second, I just stand there, staring down at Quell’s unconscious body. At the cleaner. At the blood, the broken glass, and the life we’ve tried to build here; a place that never really is safe.
Then I move. Fast, precise, the way I always do when there is a job to finish. First stop: the bedroom. Go-bag from under the bed. Already packed, always. Old habits. I shove in extra ammo, the second passport from the hollowed-out book. Cash from the safe. Only what can’t be traced. Only what can’t be replaced.
Weapons next. Guns from the closet, knives from the kitchen. I wrap them up, methodical, each one where it belongs. My hands do the work automatically, muscle memory, while my mind wanders.
I think about the morning. Quell’s sleepy smile when I leave, the way he curls into the warm spot I leave behind. His drawings, always so careful, always so damning. The vision was of me kneeling, waiting for an ending.
It came true, in a way. Not the ending either of us expected, but the pose, the surrender; that part was right. Sometimes the universe has a sick sense of humor.
I finish packing fast, ruthlessly. Everything I own fits in two bags. A whole life stripped to essentials, ready to walk out the door. That’s how it always is. I never let myself keep the things that make leaving hard. I split everything into two piles, his and mine. I know where to send him; the last remnant of my old life, where he can have the life I was supposed to lead. Quiet seaside existence, peaceful, slow and safe.
Until Quell. Until I started thinking of this place as ours, not just mine. Until I caught myself lingering over little, pointless things because they make me think of him. A chipped mug he always uses. That blanket he wraps around himself while he draws. The second toothbrush in the bathroom.
I pack them for him; let him keep the memories safe for me. They aren’t mine to take.
Once everything is packed, I haul the bags to the door and set them down. Quell is still out, breathing steadily now, color back in his face. He’ll wake up soon. I should be gone before then.
He’ll be fine. He’ll use the burner phone to call himself a cab, use the was of cash to avoid detection, and make his way up the country from one motel to the other. He has the contact information for my guy who can get him a new name, new ID, and when he reaches the coast and sees my final gift to him, he’ll be happy. Lonely, yes, but maybe that will push him enough to get a proper social life.
I’ll leave in the car Vincenzo knows about, I’ll leave a trail of small bank transactions, lead the hunters after me. I’ll never know he’s safe; that would be too dangerous, but I’ll dream about him.
I crouch beside him for a last look, memorizing the lines of his face, the curve of his mouth, the way his hair falls across his forehead, the graphite smudges always on his fingertips.
“I’m sorry,” I confess, even though he can’t hear me. “But this is the only way it ends.”
The last of my things go in my bags; another is packed for him beside it, everything he'll need for a new life, better than before.
And then my body freezes. I can’t do it. But if the dreams end with me, then this is the only way. I have to disappear. Quell deserves a chance at a life without blood, without nightmares, without the constant fear of being found.
Even if it means I’ll wake up alone for the rest of mine.
Chapter twenty-two
Quell
Iwake up to a silence so thick it feels like a blanket pressed over my face. My cheek is mashed against the hardwood, cold and sticky. For a second, I don’t know where I am. Then the world comes back in little pieces; the sharp, burned smell of gunpowder, the coppery tang of blood, a pounding ache behind my eyes. Metal. I remember the gun in my hand, Talon on his knees. He told me to do it. Pull the trigger. I didn’t try; it wasn't what I wanted. It wasn't right. My dream ended with him holding the gun, not me. Then… nothing. Just blackness, like I fell off the planet.
I blink, and my vision swims. My glasses are somehow still on, smudged and crooked, but they’ve survived. Pushing myself up, I groan. My head thuds with every heartbeat, like my blood is fighting gravity. I wipe my face. Dry. Just old tears, crusted tight on my skin. How long have I been lying here?
Something is off. The apartment feels hollow, like a party that ended hours ago and everyone forgot to clean up. The air is missing that weight, the one you get when someone else is inthe room with you. No breathing, no footsteps, nothing. Just this empty, echoing space.
I glance at the coffee table. There's the sketch of Talon’s death, folded neat as a napkin. The one I hide. The one I promised myself he’d never see. He found it. Opened it. Stares at his own face, resigned and peaceful, waiting for the end.
