Page 7 of Drawn to Death
Chapter five
Talon
Three more days of surveillance give me all I need. Quell is coming apart at the seams. He jumps at shadows. Checks every corner. Runs his fingertips along the windowsills, searching for the smallest sign of intrusion. The cameras catch everything; the flinches, the darting glances, the way he freezes when something feels wrong but he can’t name it. It’s like watching an animal trapped without ever seeing the snare.
Fascinating.
That’s what I tell myself as I rewind the footage for the third time, watching him pace his apartment at three in the morning, hands shaking as he makes another cup of tea. Just professional interest. Just intel. Nothing personal.
I sit in my dark living room, the monitors painting my face blue and cold. My laptop is open on Dreamscream.pro. Quell posted another drawing this morning. Another death. Not one of mine, but the precision is the same, the moment before the kill, caught in perfect, damning detail.
“This is taking too long,” I mutter, rubbing my jaw. Five days since Vincenzo gave me the assignment. Five days, and I still don’t know how this artist knows things no one should.
On the screen, Quell goes to the window again. He parts the curtains with careful fingers, peering down at the street. Looking for me. Not that he knows who he’s looking for. His whole body is tight with nerves. Shoulders hunched, head cocked, like he’s listening for something he can’t quite hear. The camera catches the hollow under his cheekbone, the dark smudges under his eyes, the way his fingers twitch against the curtain.
I lean in, watching his face. The paranoia is eating him alive. Good. Fear makes people easier to predict. Fear makes them weak.
But there is something else there too. Not just fear. Resignation. Like he’s always known someone would notice what he’s drawing. Like he’s been waiting for this. Waiting for someone to come for him.
I check my watch: 10:17 AM. Quell leaves for the coffee shop every day, exactly at 10:30, and stays for ninety-seven minutes. I’ve tracked it, mapped it, could set my clock by it. That means I have just enough time for another visit.
This isn’t personal. This is strategy. I need to push him. Escalate. Toward what, though, a confession? An explanation? I’m not even sure anymore. But whatever game we’re playing, I’m ready to change the rules.
I slide open my desk drawer and pull out a single sheet of heavy, acid-free paper. The good stuff: 100% cotton, smooth, what the pros use. I bought it yesterday, three neighborhoods over, in an art supply store, wearing a hat and sunglasses. Probably overkill, but old habits die hard. Next to the paper, I set down the charcoal pencil. Professional grade. The clerk promised it was the best.
A message without words. Draw me.
I pack my tools: lock picks, gloves, a small camera to swap for the one in the bedroom, because the old one has a blind spot. Routine. Methodical. This is just another job.
Then why does my heart rate pick up as I get closer to his building? Why do I check my reflection in the car window before getting out? I straighten my jacket. Adjust the collar. Professional appearance. That’s all.
The fire escape feels almost familiar now. The metal is cold through my gloves, but I barely notice. Same window, same quiet slide of the lock. I slip inside like a thought, like I belong there.
The apartment smells different this time. Not so much tea. More fear. Sweat and sleeplessness hang in the air. I stand still, letting my eyes adjust to the dim. Everything is technically the same, but it isn’t. Quell has moved things, searching for proof someone has been here. The kitchen counter is empty now, all the mugs and plates put away. The couch cushions lined up perfectly. Books rearranged on the shelf.
He’s looking for me. The idea sends a weird little thrill through my chest.
I move across the floor, careful not to hit the boards I know will creak. Who knows if someone else is in this building. The drawing table by the window is cleared off except for a single sketchbook. I run my fingertips over the surface. I can feel the grooves where he’s pressed too hard with his pencil, the rough spots where eraser shavings have been brushed away.
The sketchbook is closed. He’s done that on purpose. Usually, he leaves it open to whatever he’s working on. I think about opening it, but decide not to. Better to let him wonder if I have.
Instead, I go to the kitchenette. One mug sits in the drying rack, still damp. I pick it up. It has weight. The ceramic is smooth except for the rim, worn down where his lips always touch. Ibring it to my nose and breathe in. The scent of his tea. Earthy. Complicated. A hint of something floral.
This isn’t intelligence gathering. This is something else entirely.
I set the mug down exactly as I found it, careful not to leave a trace, and keep moving. There’s a stack of books on the coffee table: art books, psychology, one about dreams. I run my finger along the spines, feeling for which ones he’s reached for most. Some are pristine. Others slouch, their covers soft at the edges.
The bathroom door is half-open. The space inside is cramped. On the wall, the medicine cabinet door hangs open; sleeping pills, a prescription for anxiety, toothpaste squeezed right in the middle. I don’t touch anything. Some things deserve privacy, even now.
The bedroom is last. I hesitate. If there is a line, this is it, and I’m about to cross it. Professional distance only goes so far. I step in anyway.
The bed is a mess, sheets twisted like he’s been wrestling them all night. The pillow holds the shape of his head. I stand over it, staring at the hollow where he sleeps; or fails to. My hand moves before I think about it. I press my fingers to the pillow, feel the softness, the faint dampness that says: bad dreams, night sweats, something unresolved.
I jerk my hand back. What am I doing?
On the dresser, propped against the wall, is a framed drawing. A self-portrait. I pick it up, careful not to smudge the glass. Quell has drawn himself with no mercy: tired eyes, a tight line between his brows, tension at the corners of his mouth. But there’s more in the drawing than the cameras ever catch. A kind of strength, hidden behind the exhaustion. Determination. Something unbroken.
I set the portrait back down and check my watch. I’ve already stayed too long. Time to deliver the message and get out.
