Page 40 of Fresh Canvas
Stella’s bright laughter faded into my quiet office.
But forever had been a little too far away for us.
I pried my white knuckles from the desk and stood, massaging them before tracing the tattoo snaking up my arm. My fingers knew the familiar, stinging pattern by heart.
A gilded picture frame found its way into my hands. Stella’s stunning blue eyes grinned atop her ever-cheeky smile. Ocean waves of pain lapped over my heart, salting the open wounds that never seemed to heal.
An unwelcome image of her final moments lying in that hospital bed made me squeeze my eyes shut. Made me pleadwith my brain to think of anything else. She had been so pale. So small. So tired of fighting to stay in this world, even as I wasn’t ready to let her go.
My lungs started to do that annoying thing again, where they decided to submerge themselves in water. Professionals called them panic attacks. I called them pathetic.
Unable to breathe, I stumbled toward the windows, cracking one open. The meager air flow I gulped smelled of traffic exhaust and early summer. Windows across the street gave me a glimpse of other employed adults, each unaware of how my heart was breaking.
HowIwas breaking.
A tentative knock and click of the door alerted me to someone’s presence, though I didn’t bother turning around.
“Mr. Russo?”
I recognized one of the newer intern’s voices. On a scale from puberty to renting a car, the poor guy seemed closer to the former.
“S-sorry to interrupt, but marketing is having a hard time locating the file you sent for the Felix Andreas exhibit?—”
“It’s in the email attachment,” I said through clenched teeth, still trying to regulate my breathing.
“Uh, they can’t find it, sir. I know?—”
“No, you don’tknow.” I cut him off.
Swallowing my pain, I turned and strode past the blubbering intern toward the marketing department.
No one knew.
A wave threatened to drag me under again.
No oneknew.
And I intended to keep it that way.
eleven
VAL
On the night before the Felix Andreas gala, I found myself working late. The only light in the room came from my computer screen, since I was too busy to care about the motion sensor lighting timing out overhead. I’d long since given up waving my arms to turn it on again.
Darkness didn’t bug me—shadows filled me from the inside out anyway.
These condition reports are a mess.
I scowled, clicked another image file, and tried to make sense of the written document. I squinted closer at the screen, attempting to read line after line of sloppy handwriting. For being such vital records, you’d think the numbskulls would have taken more care. While it was tedious work to log each file into the museum’s system, screwing up wasn’t an option.
These specific reports listed the condition of Felix Andreas’ paintings since birth, documenting any tearing, yellowing, or repairs needed over the years. It was common practice for museums, but I took pride in ensuring that each masterpiece was thoroughly documented the wayIthought best.
Clicking on another image file, I found a pristine conditionreport with neat handwriting. I grinned and patted myself on the back. Kendra had assignedmeto write the condition report on the featured piece of the exhibition,Attersee Bei Sonnenuntergang, orLake Attersee at Sunset.
My thorough attention to detail should have made it easy to submit the document to the system. But instead, I hesitated, my mouse hovering over the final click between me and my down-filled pillow at home. I squinted closer at the screen.
What the?—?
