Page 11 of A Touch of Dark
Too early.
Simon prefers for me to stumble across his presents rather than lie in wait. A glance at my watch draws a sigh from my lips. Way too early. There’s at least an hour to kill.
As I step out onto the curb, I consider the bar. It beckons me from beyond a glittering row of windows. Oh, the promise of salty, stale, expensive wine.
On my way into the lobby I notice that the poster advertising the art of Sampson is still there. A steady line of people streams in and out at the discretion of the blond woman with her trademark clipboard.
She spots me from across the lobby and smiles. “Couldn’t stay away?”
Maybe not. The distraction promised by wine isn’t as appealing as the cruel honesty of death and floral arrangements, apparently. I’m slipping into the crowd of eager voyeurs before I know it. An unseen figure presses another brochure into my hands, but nothing holds my attention for long—apart from the maze of canvases.
Sampson likes his subjects nude. And it seems he never paints the same woman twice. They all stare from various angles, wide-eyed and contorted in some grotesque pose. Despite the myriad of differences, one feature always appears in every single portrait: pink lips, slightly parted. A knowing, petulant pout.
As if every muse relished her master’s attention, right down to the final stroke.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
I recognize the crisp voice of the blond woman. I turn to face her, realizing that, once again, I’m left staring long after the thick of the crowd has dissipated.
“I don’t do this often,” she says before I can apologize, “and I must say that Sampson isn’t very fond of humoring admirers. But, as his manager, I’ll take the liberty of schmoozing anyone willing to buy. I’m Carla, by the way.”
She presses something against my palm. A business card, black and sleek with a glossy finish. Déjà vu strikes like a lance and I nearly drop it. It’s so similar to Simon’s calling card…
This font, however, is industrial silver. The address printed on one side is presumably Sampson’s base of operations.
“I can’t guarantee a meeting in person,” the woman warns. “But I won’t exactly turn you away if you’d like to look at his more…obscure collection.”
“Oh?”
Her mischievous wink ignites my curiosity. What pieces might a man like this deem too distasteful for the public eye? My chest tightens at the thought. From disgust? Or anticipation? I’m not in a hurry to decide.
Instead, I finger the card’s glossy front before slipping it inside my pocket. If I call a town car now, it would be roughly a ten-minute trip, delaying my opening of Simon’s gift just a little longer.
But would the delay be worth it?
I can’t settle on an answer during the short trip back to the lobby. The usual crush of people has dispersed, leaving just a few tenants and visitors milling about. This time of year, everyone wears some variation of a heavy coat, disguising the bulk of their features.Could one of them be Simon concealing my present beneath the winter layers?
I’d never know. He prefers to haunt me from afar, always watching. It’s his elusiveness that makes him so terrifying, especially back then…
“Are you okay, miss?” A hand brushes my shoulder, belonging to a security guard.
I nod and have no choice but to enter the elevator to keep up the façade.
I’m okay.
At least I am during the silent ride to my floor. Then the elevator doors part and my ruse slips once I find an empty hall, no wayward visitors in sight.
No distraction.
Slow, heavy steps carry me to my door. My palms sweat inside their gloves, which aggravates the healing scrapes. I shake them firmly in a vain attempt to dispel the nervous energy. When that fails, I lie to myself.You’re ready.
Or not.
As I round the corner, my eyes fixate on the glossy numbers on my door first before roving downward…
And settle on my gray welcome mat.
Five seconds of searching pass before I finally accept that it’s empty.
