Page 86 of Misery
That painting is in my closet. Was in my old apartment's closet. No one's seen it except?—
Except someone who was in my apartment. Watching. Going through my things.
I'm frozen. Can't move. Can't breathe.
Aren's standing now, moving closer, but the man doesn't seem concerned.
If anything, he seems amused by the prospect's approach.
"You should tell your boy to be careful," he says to Aren directly. "Not everyone appreciates aggressive posturing. Some of us prefer subtlety. Finesse."
"You need to leave," Aren says.
His voice cracks slightly. He's scared too.
"I was just going." The man turns back to me. Leans slightly over the bar, close enough that I smell his cologne.
Leather and copper and something dark.
Something that reminds me of blood.
"Thank you for a lovely evening," he says. "I had no idea my little artist would be so... luminous up close. Worth the wait. Worth everything, really. All the watching. All the waiting. All the bodies I've left in your name."
The words hit me like a slap in the face.
My little artist.
The smirk that follows.
The deliberate emphasis.
The way he watches the realization dawn on my face like a sunrise.
Like art. Like he's painting my fear with his words.
"You—" I can't finish. Can't breathe.
"Goodbye, Elfe," he says.
My name sounds like a caress.
Like ownership.
Like a promise and threat combined. "For now. We'll see each other again soon. When there are fewer dogs around."
He walks out casually, unhurried.
Aren moves to follow but I grab his arm with both hands, nails digging in.
"Don't," I managed. "Don't leave me alone."
Then my knees give out.
Aren catches me before I hit the ground.
The broken glass crunches under his boots as he holds me up. "Hey, hey, you're okay?—"
"I'm not okay!" The words rip out of me. "That washim. The one leaving bodies. The one who—oh God, he's been in my apartment. He has my paintings. He knows?—"
