Page 43 of The One Who Won’t Get Away
Nadya took deep breath after deep breath, trying to calm herself, but none of it worked.I wrapped my arms around her, needing to comfort her as much as she needed it.
“Want to stop by an art store?”I asked.
“I’ll make a mess at the hotel,” she answered.
“I can probably find studio space if you need to let it out.”The urge to kiss the top of her head was strong, but I pushed it back.Hugging was bad enough.I didn’t need to overstep even more boundaries.
“That would actually be nice,” Nadya admitted.
“Perfect.Then you paint while I get in touch with Renat.He’s working on Orlova’s case, so we need to compare notes and see where we’ll go from here.”
We could probably head back to New York soon, too.A shame.I was beginning to like having Nadya with me all day long, elbow to the eye and all.
Chapter 18
Nadya
THE STUDIO LOOKED EXACTLYhow I wanted my insides to feel— empty.Every surface was wiped down, the folding table in the corner covered in butcher paper, the ancient wood floor hidden under overlapping sheets of paint-splattered drop cloth.There was a coil of extension cord, a Bluetooth speaker, and a beat-up mini fridge tucked in the corner.No chairs, but that was fine.This wasn’t a sitting kind of work.
Nick had done his best to find me this space on such short notice, and I had no idea what I’d done to deserve it.He was too good.Hell, he’d even gotten me all the tools and paint.
I started with a large brush.The new, blank surface stared back at me, daring me to dirty it up with all the ugliness living inside me.The first pass was a violent blue— the same one I used to paint fake bruises in art school.Then came streaks of yellow, like the edges of the bruise beginning to heal.
I went after the whiskey in the first hour.I had bought it right before coming, knowing that painting alone wouldn’t be enough.Ignoring the ceramic mug I’d found under the sink, I chugged it from the bottle before returning to my work.
After the underpaint dried enough, I drew a bottle because that was always how these paintings started.You got the shape down, then let it guide you.The neck of the bottle bent at an unnatural angle, about to pour itself into a pile of takeout containers at the bottom of the canvas.I gave the bottle a label—red, like a warning sign, but with all the words blurred and out of focus.Instead of whiskey inside, there was this syrupy, ink-black mess.
I made the spilled liquid arc over the food cartons, pouring into them, over them, seeping beneath them.By the second layer, I couldn’t decide if it was liquor or blood.Didn’t matter.The painting made its own rules, like always.
There was no sound in the studio except for the brush’s whisper and the slap of sponge against canvas.The smell of new paint spurred me on.
I only checked my phone twice that afternoon, which was a new world record.The first was when I took a break to dig through the mini fridge for a seltzer.The second was when the phone buzzed on the drop cloth, screen lighting up with Nick’s text.I didn’t read it.If it was a genuine emergency, he’d call, and if it was anything else, I didn’t want to know.Instead, I put the phone face down on the table.
On the next pass, I switched to the knife, scraping the edge through the thick blue, pulling down lines like a monster’s claw marks.The streaks of yellow fought their way out from underneath, and I let them.
I stepped back to look.
