Page 54 of Drawn to Death
“Yes, Daddy,” I say, teasing, using the name that’s somehow turned into both a joke and the truth.
His eyes darken, hand finding mine on the bench. “Good boy.”
The words settle in my chest, warm and familiar, like something I’ve carried for a long time. This thing between us, it’s sharpened over the last week. The care, the structure, the way he always seems to know what I need, sometimes before I do. The way I catch myself wanting to please him, to chase that rare, quiet approval.
Night falls hard, and it’s time to pack up. Talon grabs the easel without a word while I stuff my brushes and paints into my bag. We start down the promenade, heading for the road that winds back to the house. My steps are light, even though my legs ache from standing all day.
A car rolls by, headlights sweeping over us. I see how Talon tenses, just for a second, his body shifting so he stands between me and the road. It’s the smallest thing. Most people wouldn’t catch it. But I’ve learned to watch for those tiny tells, the constant edge, the vigilance that’s kept him alive. That’s kept me alive, too.
“Do you think they’ll ever find us?” It just slips out. I don’t mean to ask, but there it is.
He doesn’t play dumb. “Eventually. Yes.”
Brutal honesty. That’s Talon. No sugarcoating, not when it matters. Not when it comes to danger.
“How long?” I stare at the ocean, black and endless, with no line between water and sky.
“Months. Maybe a year, if we’re lucky.” His hand lands at the small of my back, steering me around a busted plank in the walkway. “We’ll know when it’s time to move.”
I should be scared. Maybe I am, a little. But mostly, I feel calm. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together. The killer and his artist. We found each other in blood and visions. No one’s going to tear us apart.
“I like it here,” I say, voice soft. “By the sea.”
“Then we’ll find another place by the sea,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Farther away. Safer.”
We turn up the path to the house, leaving the lights behind. Above us, the stars come out, way more than I’ve ever seen in the city. The air tastes of salt and pine, the breeze cool on my face.
Tomorrow I’ll start a new painting. Something different. No blood, no endings. Talon will keep watch, check the locks, and scan the beach for strangers. He’ll make coffee, fold laundry, remind me to eat. We’ll fall into that strange rhythm of ours: half domestic, half on guard.
For now, it’s enough. This peace, borrowed and fragile, but real. This connection, unlikely and unbreakable. This moment, walking side by side up the winding path, the waves behind us, and the house ahead, glowing with lights Talon left on for us.
I reach for his hand in the dark, not needing to look. His fingers close around mine, warm and steady and sure.
Chapter twenty-seven
Talon
The sea goes copper at the edges; the day bleeding out, slow and syrupy, across the water. I take a sip of my coffee, cold as regret, and watch Quell down on the beach. His bare feet leave perfect little dimples in the wet sand, each one filling with water when the tide flows in. He’s laughing with some tourist, a woman in a sun hat so big you could hide a cat under it, and she’s just bought one of his sunset paintings. From up here on the porch, he looks small. Breakable. Safe. Three weeks at the beach house, and I’ve never seen him so loose, so easy in his own skin. Shoulders down, head tipped back, not a single muscle tensed for impact.
It ought to be enough.
But my eyes keep drifting, anyway, to the sedan parked too long in the public lot, the guy who’s glanced our way four times in the last hour. Old habits. The kind you never really shake.
I set the mug down, fingers curling around the porch rail. The wood is warm from the sun, worn smooth by salt and years. I remember my grandfather’s hands sanding this railing, alifetime ago. Now it’s mine, knuckles white, scanning for threats that might not even be real.
Quell’s hair catches the light as he bends to pack up his stuff. Paint smears his arms in streaks of gold and red, like the sky’s gotten all over him. He’s wearing my t-shirt, the navy one, way too big for him. Something about seeing him in my clothes still does things to my chest I can’t even name.
A gull shrieks overhead. I track it out of habit, then go back to counting variables. The man in the blue shirt, leaning against a lamppost. A couple walking too slowly past the house. The dark car with tinted windows, parked just where I can see it. Probably nothing. But maybe everything.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Not my usual phone. The other one. The burner I keep charged but never use. I go still, hand already reaching for it before my brain catches up.
Only one number ever calls this phone.
I pull it out, stare at the blank screen. No caller ID, but I don’t need it. I know exactly who’s on the other end. Vincenzo. This is the call I’ve been waiting for since we vanished. Since I stole Quell out from under his nose and ran with a prize that wasn’t mine.
I look back at Quell, still down on the beach, wrapping up another canvas for a different tourist. He’s safe. For now. Contained. I answer the call and don’t bother saying anything.
The line crackles, just empty air, humming between us. I can picture Vincenzo in his office, tie perfect, face blank as marble. Waiting me out. But I’m better at silence than he is.
