Phoebe
T hree days of wandering around her apartment, waiting for answers, had her itching to create. She dealt with stress by painting, and this was the longest she had ever gone without a paintbrush in her hand. Without it, she felt like she might crack; she couldn’t count the number of times she had checked her phone, waiting for Olivier to call. She had run out of things to clean, and even packed up Cillian’s belongings. She kept their photo albums, donated some clothes and sent the rest to his mum. Her confidence had taken a dive since the funeral and she felt guilty for not having checked in on Maureen, but she didn’t feel right calling. didn’t want to hear about how she was getting to know her grandchild’s mother.
After Axel had talked about staying at hers, she realised how the space still felt like theirs instead of hers . She wasn’t doing anything wrong by having a man in the apartment, but with Cillian’s things around, it had felt like she was. It was time to make the space hers again.
She had decided to pack up her studio. Even with the locks changed, it didn’t feel safe to go there. Lena agreed and sent movers she trusted to help.
As was putting her breakfast dishes in the sink, her phone finally rang.
“Hello? ?” Olivier asked as she fumbled it in her desperation to grab it from the couch.
“Yes, yes! I’m here,” she said, without a shred of subtlety.
“I’ve got the information you’re looking for. I’m sorry it took me a few days. The man’s name is Gunther Sheen. He attempted to get in to see you in the hospital in Munich, but security turned him away. Security got his details after he kept hounding nurses for information.”
She couldn’t believe this stranger had tried to get into her hospital room.
“Do you have any other information?” she asked, hoping for an address or a place of employment. She could track him down online, but Olivier was one step ahead.
“Gunther tried to get access to the hospital in Munich by showing a work ID for LouderTech, explaining that he worked for the band and had business to discuss. Apparently, he works with them?”
“LouderTech? The music production company?” She frowned. Their office was only a thirty-minute drive from her apartment. “Didn’t they organise a festival Brothers of Anarchy headlined last summer?”
Maybe he’d met the band and got a little too attached? Wouldn’t be the first time.
“Metal and Gunpowder was the festival, but he’s rather low on the totem pole to have any close interaction with the guys. LouderTech received several VIP tickets for the concert in Munich and other European dates, but it’s hard to know who the passes went to or if he was one of them.”
knew it wasn’t strange for B.O.A.’s management to give out tickets to companies they worked with, wanted to work with, or celebrities. Maybe Mr Sheen came to the hospital to offer his help in a time of need in hopes of getting closer to the band and when he was turned away, he got angry? He broke into my studio to vent?
“Axel told me about the break-in.” Olivier disrupted her thoughts. “If you want me to send someone over to watch the apartment or the studio, I can. I kept my promise not to tell the band about the pictures, but I hope you aren’t planning on doing anything stupid.”
put Olivier on loudspeaker as she ordered a taxi. “He shouldn’t have worried you. I’m going to pass on the information to the police.” It was only half a lie. “I’ll be fine, and thank you again for your help.”
“Look after yourself. We’re here if you need us,” Olivier assured her, and she hung up before guilt got the better of her.
Looking at herself in her bedroom mirror, she knew she wouldn’t get into an office building in her sweatpants and fluffy headband. She threw on a granny square jumper and jeans with her white trainers, but tying the laces took her longer than she cared to admit. Some mascara and lip gloss helped her pass as an employee, or at least an intern. She packed a sports bag with a few necessities and hurried downstairs to the waiting taxi.
All through the ride over to the LouderTech building in the heart of the city, she considered turning around and giving the information to the police. However, when the driver pulled over into the taxi rank just down the street from the offices, she found herself getting out. She was sick of people doing whatever the hell they wanted and getting away with it.
A pretty smile got her through the initial security barrier without a second glance. The weight of the paint can in her bag was uncomfortably heavy on her shoulder, but she tried to walk as naturally as possible. Though her lilac hair had faded, she was terrified one of the employees heading into work would recognise her, given how much she had been in the press. Luckily, this was the last place they would expect her to be, and no one batted an eye.
Her heart pounded as she slipped into the underground car park through the delivery entrance. After the morning rush, the staff car park was painfully quiet, but she couldn’t chicken out now. She couldn’t paint, but Gunther Sheen was about to learn how creative she could be. At the end of the second row, by the elevators, the sight of his jeep made her giddy. The shiny, bright red paint was free of scratches or dents, begging to be destroyed.
From her sports bag, she pulled out the bucket of yellow paint. It was a bit of a struggle getting it open, but revenge spurred her on. Her physiotherapist would have been proud of her for pushing herself.
She could have smashed the windscreen, popped a tire, but that all seemed too obvious. Standing in front of the car, she made sure no one was around before she pushed the bucket of paint up onto the roof. Luck was on her side when no alarm sounded. We’re off to a good start .
Hopping up onto the bonnet wasn’t easy, and she fought back a loud curse when she leaned too much pressure on her right hand. Still, she got on the roof, putting some nice dents in the metal work. She wobbled a little and grabbed the crowbar she’d rested on the windshield wipers.
Windscreen or sunroof? She asked herself. Let’s go with the sunroof. Why ruin such a pretty paint job?
Channelling every inch of rage from the past weeks into one good swing, she shoved the crowbar into the sunroof. My god, does it feel good to hit something, she thought as adrenaline rushed through her.
The sound echoed off the concrete, and she cringed. She froze, waiting for someone to come running. When no one arrived, a nervous chuckle escaped her. The gods must think he deserves this, she decided. It took two hard swings to hear the satisfactory crackle of glass falling into the front seat.
Perfect! She smirked, taking a long, deep breath of petrol-scented air. She barely even felt the pain in her hand, but she feared its return once the adrenaline wore off. She would have to make this worth it. Staring through the destroyed sunroof, she admired the interior. A pop of colour would make all the difference to the black leather and brushed suede trim.
“Least the yellow will complement the red exterior.”
She picked up the tin and poured the thick yellow paint inside. Long streams of paint bounced and spattered against the chairs and dash, filling every nook and cranny, soaking into the carpet and finishings nicely. She made sure the mess was contained to the car; she didn’t want anyone to have to clean up her revenge. When the last drop landed, considered the deed done.
Her shoulders relaxed as she went to get down, only for the glare of headlights to blind her. Her hand shot up to protect her eyes. She was surprised how calm she felt. She didn’t care about getting in trouble; she was content with her destruction. Her luck had to run out at some point.
She squinted in the harsh light, and put the empty can down on the roof.