Page 17 of My End
The man in the car was clean-cut in a suit jacket over a tactical tee. He handed Jim what looked like a USB or chip.
Jim slipped it into his jacket and snapped the case shut. The whole interaction took less than sixty seconds.
Then the SUV turned and disappeared down the drive.
I waited until Jim was out of sight before I approached the spot.
Nothing obvious. Just faint tire tracks in the gravel. What had Jim given that guy that was in the briefcase?
By late afternoon, I’d changed, showered, and tried to sleep again, but my mind kept spinning.
Boone was still gone, and there wasn’t much word about Gibbs, either.
Yet security was still tight, patrols still active, and Jim moved like something was about to explode.
Then there was Tilly.
I hadn’t heard a single sound from her since that morning in the kitchen.
No footsteps.
No laughter.
No paint-splattered appearances.
I knew she was up there, but part of me was starting to wonder if she was in that studio by choice… or if someone was making damn sure she stayed there.
Later, just after dinner, I headed toward the second floor. Technically, I wasn’t assigned to this wing, but no one had stopped me yet.
I moved slow, and my eyes scanned for cameras.
None in the hallway itself.
Interesting.
As I passed her studio door, something caught my eye.
A smear of cobalt blue across the brass doorknob. Fresh. Still damp.
I paused and reached out to run my finger across it.
Paint.
She was in there.
Alive. Working. Fully consumed.
There was a glass jar beside the door that was half-filled with murky water and three brushes still soaking inside.
Something about that small sign of life settled the knot in my stomach.
I didn’t knock.
But I did pause.
I stood there for a long moment and listened.
And for the first time in five days, I heard her voice.
