Chapter 41
“So now,” he says, plugging the orange extension cord into the living room wall outlet, “when you use your hair dryer, it won’t shut off half the fucking house.”
I clap my hands together. “Thank you!”
Logan groans, standing up off the floor like he’s somebody’s dad. “This isn’t a solution, it’s just a temporary bandage—and a shitty one at that. We’re gonna need to have the electrical rewired sooner rather than later,” he says.
“We’re?” I ask with a smile.
The corner of his mouth tips up. “Did I stutter?”
I stretch up on my tiptoes and pull him down by his neck to kiss him on the cheek. “Ready to pick up where we left off in the attic?” I ask.
Yesterday, I expressed to Logan that I wanted to go through some of Dad’s things.
It’s been weeks since I’ve been up there.
As usual, he wanted to help—it’s almost like a sixth sense, knowing when I’m working up there.
Dealing with an emotionally charged task is a lot more bearable when he’s around.
He’s strong enough to lift the heavy things I can’t, physically and metaphorically.
“Let’s do it.”
“What if we put some of these sketchbooks in the shop?” I ask, thumbing through the pages of another sketchbook. We’re getting a little sidetracked enjoying the nostalgia of his penmanship and goofy drawings. “You know, like with the portfolio books in the front.”
He shrugs. “Would you ever want to include them with flash? I’m sure people will want them.”
I flip a couple pages, revisiting the images. “Is that weird, though—tattooing his work posthumously?” I ask.
“Only you can decide that, but I don’t think it’s weird. I think he would love for you to be the one to continue his legacy. It might be a cool homage, a few small pieces from his private collection that you’re willing to show the world.”
I like the idea of having more of Dad’s work featured at the shop he started so many years ago; it keeps him alive there. Black Rabbit has always had a heartbeat; the appreciation of art and history of ink run through its walls like a life source. Lines, love, and lineage.
There’s some great work in these sketchbooks—there’s some shit too—but I want to share his doodles and the artistic side of him that was more than flash. He was a talented artist of many styles, but most people only know him for the one.
“I’ll pick out a few to set aside,” I say, nodding and selecting four of my favorites.
I carry them over to the attic ladder and set them beside the opening so I don’t forget to take them down.
Out of the corner of my eye, a small red light reflects off a mirror Logan moved earlier.
It’s just behind the attic hatch. I cock my head to the side, pushing off the floor of the attic, and walk over to the mirror, following the reflection to the source.
The hatch.
There’s something electronic on the attic door hatch. It’s hidden well, but it’s not supposed to be there. I run my fingers over it, and there’s another that matches it on the frame of the opening, but that one is painted over, so it’s better camouflaged. Holy shit.
“Logan! Come over here.” I gasp, pointing at the small shiny inlaid device. “Do you see this?”
He rubs the back of his neck, watching me, then takes in a long, slow breath before reluctantly standing and coming over to see what I’m pointing to.
“Is this some kind of hidden camera?” I ask. “Could the stalker have done this?”
“It’s a security sensor,” he says, stepping down the ladder and carrying the sketchbooks with him. When he reaches the main level, he sets the books on a small hallway table and motions me to come down the ladder. Why is he not freaking out right now?
“Logan, I didn’t install a security sensor!” Someone came into my house and put that here. God, this is a nightmare that never ends. “Someone is watching me.”
His shoulders rise when he takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “Come down here.”