Page 47 of Drawn to Death
Outside, life goes on. Cars, people, the world spinning. In here, none of it matters. Just his heartbeat under my ear, his breath in my hair, his arms around me.
The dreams will come. Death might still find us. But we’ll face it side by side; the killer and his artist, bound by visions, choices, and something we haven’t named yet.
For now, that is enough.
Chapter twenty-three
Talon
This moment is beautiful, one I never thought I'd have with Quell, and one I never want to end. But we are sharing an apartment with a dead body who didn’t report back after her mission. We need to go.
Now.
Fifteen minutes ago would have been better. But I'd risk it all to hold him for another minute in my arms.
Quell is curled into me, one hand splayed over my ribs, his face slack with bliss. In the grayish light, he looks younger. Unburdened. The lines that usually cut into his forehead have smoothed out, his lips parted a little, lashes dark and still against his cheeks.He looks different now.Like the war inside him just… stopped.
I let myself look at him. Really look. Noticing things I’ve ignored before. The tiny scar at his temple, nearly masked by his hair. The way his fingers twitch now and then, as if his mind is drawing even when his body isn't. The steady rise and fall of hischest. Every breath is a small miracle, considering what we’ve survived.
“We need to go.”
Quell makes a faint noise of complaint and then sits up. The floor is cold as I pad across it, grabbing sweatpants and pulling them on. Quell dresses with my speed but without the finesse. He fumbles more, almost falls trying to put a sock on standing up.
He grabs the bags I packed for him; I grab the others, and we head out. His duffle bag of art supplies is just down the hall, and I take a final look at the body as he leaves me to go grab it.
A floorboard creaks behind me. Instinct snaps through me, muscles tight, ready to move. But I know those footsteps. The weight, the rhythm. I make myself let go, breathe.
“I'm ready,” Quell says, voice determined.
I don’t have words for any of that. Never have. So I reach out, tuck a piece of hair behind his ear, let my hand rest on his cheek. His skin is warm, stubble rough. He leans into my touch, eyes closing for a second, and that trust almost does me in.
“What happens now?” I don’t need to read the plan he wrote; he is the plan.
“Once we're on the road, I'll call in a favor. Someone to come and clean the apartment. The body, fingerprints, anything we left. It won't stop Vincenzo figuring it out, but it will keep the cops out of this.”
“He'll keep looking, won't he?”
“Vincenzo will look for us,” I agree. “We’ll dump this car, leave him a few breadcrumbs leading him the wrong way, and then we’ll disappear. I have a surprise I’m ready to share with someone.”
Quell nods, calm as ever. “I’ve never had a surprise before.”
“Never?” I offer him my hand, and he has to rearrange his hold on the bags to accept it. “Not birthdays or Christmas?”
“Nah, people always asked me what I wanted. But it never felt like a real choice until I met you.” He says it as if it’s obvious. Like following a killer into the void is the easiest thing in the world.
“I think I have become unprofessionally attached to you.” I confess. It's the closest I've ever been to saying I love you to anyone.
“I’m very unprepared to kill you too.” He replies with a chuckle. He meant it as a joke, but my journey through his childhood was thorough, and I know that's as close as he's ever come to saying I love you. Being on a planet with six billion other people he would be unprepared to kill; it still sounds like a compliment.
We haul the bags out to the garage, get them into the trunk. The street is just regular, nothing special. No one around, or at least nobody paying attention. No weird cars, no shadows in the windows. Just a normal morning, people living their lives, not knowing we’re about to vanish.
I climb into the driver’s seat. Quell slides in next to me. I turn the key, and the engine starts up, humming smoothly and low. For a second, neither of us moves. The apartment building sits in the rearview, looking back at us like it’s waiting. Everything we’re not taking with us.
I shift into drive. We’re not running away. We’re just leaving. There’s a difference.
The car eases off the curb. Quell reaches over, his hand brushing mine on the gearshift. He hesitates, almost as if he’s asking. I turn my hand over, thread our fingers, and let out a deep breath.
We don’t talk, even as the city fades behind us, sunlight flashing off windows and tree branches. We don’t have a plan. Justaway. Justtogether. The road stretching out ahead, and whatever comes next.
