Page 34 of Paint the Town, Dove
And this fraud would not take that power away from me.
I stood now, creeping forward until the peaks of my pumps pressed onto hers. “The problem with people like you, Yasmine,” I spat, standing above her, “you’ve lived too long like a leech and you’re running out of blood to suck. Sure you got Ryden’s song, theonlysong, need I remind you, that placed you at thebottomof the charts because your voice is weak compared to his. But one day, maybe a few years from now,” I sneered, “your little career is going to tank. And you know what happens when a leech runs out of blood?” I stood, taking her dirty, disgusting martini in my hand. “They die.”
And down came the rain that washed the spiderout–
“Scarlett!” I heardhiscall from afar, a crowd of people forming around me and the now soaked Yasmine Ryvetts.
She screamed, a whiny, mouse-like wail that pierced my eardrums. That any human can make a noise like that surprised me, but coming from Yasmine, I wasn’t shocked.
Ryden was right on cue, tearing through the horde of people, coming to a halt beside me.
Through the sticky glaze of her eyes, the olive pit rolling around in the sac of her dress, she looked like a fucking clown. Flashes of light illuminated the sphere, cameras and chatter going off like bombs.
“Scar…” Ryden put his hand on my arm but I steered him away, glancing once at Yasmine before driving the knife.
“Where there’s smoke,” I mouthed, “there’s fire.”
Chapter Twelve
Scarlett
Sixteen Years Ago
I was inside Ryden Spectre’s house.
This, this is where the lonely boy grew up.
Where he witnessed some terrible things.
I was young, sure. But bright and brilliant.
All the stories he told me, about the holes in the walls, the cracks in the floors – they were coming to life like dead weeds witnessing a miracle.
Right before my eyes was the map of Ryden’s life. Ryden’s trauma. His mother’s abuse. His step-whatever’s anger.
A mantle was broken.
A tile was chipped.
Pockets of wall were caved in, here and there –
Everywhere.
“What are you doing?” he asked, yanking my arm away from a dent in the drywall.
I didn’t even know I was touching it.
“My hands have a mind of their own,” I said.
“I don’t want Corban to notice –”
“Yeah, Ryden, I bet he’d notice me touching all the stuff he already broke.”
He made a face. “That’s not funny.”
“And I’m not laughing.” I walked away, running a finger over the dusty picture frameslining the hallway. “Is this you and your mom?”
He sighed, coming to step beside me. “Yeah, New Year’s Day. Uh, four years ago.”
