Chapter Sixty-One
Grace
Belle marches proudly through the automatic doors, her steady warmth grounding me against the fluorescent lights and overwhelming size of the artist supply store.
I curl my fingers around the leather handle of her harness, hoping the dull ache behind my eyes is nothing more than a side effect of the tears I cried after talking to Isha.
Learning at least a small spark of our friendship survived left me shaken in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
Halfway through physical therapy, I had a vague memory of the two of us crossing the finish line of some race together.
It shocked me so much, I lost my balance and jammed my shoulder against the wall of our home gym.
Karen made me promise to rest this afternoon. I will. In an hour. Because I need this. I need to know I can do something as normal as go to a store. Even if I do have two of the three most overprotective men in the world with me.
“You’ll be able to see me the whole time,” Jasper says. “But I won’t stick too close.”
Connor stays near the front windows, casually browsing a display of framing supplies. But his gaze sweeps the parking lot every few seconds.
I wander down the watercolor aisle first, my fingers brushing over metal tins of cobalt and crimson and verdant green before curling around a long-handled brush.
“Water will always seek out the dry parts of the paper. It flows. Don’t be scared if what shows up on the canvas isn’t what you had in your head. Sometimes, beauty comes from the unexpected.”
The sudden vision of a classroom full of students, easels arranged in a semi-circle, all watching me teach is so shocking, I almost drop the brush in my hand. I don’t remember painting. Don’t remember how. But maybe tomorrow, I’ll try.
The oils are achingly familiar. But something about them makes my heart beat too quickly, and the ache drumming against my left temple sharpens. There’s a memory here too. An important one.
A woman a few feet away glances over at me, elbows the teenager next to her, and starts whispering in the girl’s ear. Belle stands up a little taller, the fur along her back bristling slightly.
“Shhh, sweetie. It’s okay,” I murmur, even though it’s not. I don’t have to hear to know what they’re saying to one another.
It’s her. She’s the one who disappeared. Who came back. What’s she doing here?
Jasper moves into their line of sight as the teen pulls out her phone. “Ma’am. Mind if I step in here? My sister-in-law is tryin’ to do some shopping.”
They rush to the end of the aisle, and the mother—a little too loudly—tells her daughter to put her phone away.
“You doin’ okay?” Jasper asks, his voice quiet and gentle.
“Yes.” I force my fingers to unclench, then rub at the tight knot in my chest. “I think so. I…need to find the sketch pads.”
He offers me his arm, and though I want to do this on my own, the store is too busy. Too full of people. Jasper is safe. And while he can’t stop people from gawking—or whispering—he’ll at least make sure no one gets too close.
We find the drawing aisle, and I pick out a handful of graphite pencils, some new charcoals, and three different sketch pads. I almost go back to the watercolors, but my head is pounding. I’m ready to be home, curled up on the couch with Belle and a cup of tea.
At the register, I realize I didn’t think to ask AJ about my wallet. My credit cards. Driver’s license. Does he have them? Or was I carrying them when I disappeared?
The cashier rings everything up, and Jasper waves his phone over the card reader before I can say a word. It shouldn’t sting. He’s family. I’ll pay him back. I must have a bank account. Somewhere. But my cheeks catch fire and I stare down at the floor as the cashier passes him the bag.
“Hang on,” Connor says when we meet him at the doors. “I want a clear line of sight to the car.”
I almost laugh at his grave tone. We’re at a busy little shopping complex. No one’s going to try to grab me here. But he’s giving up his day to keep me safe, so I adjust my grip on Belle’s harness and wait for a handful of cars in the parking lot to clear.
The sun is blinding—it’s one of those days where spring is fighting hard to chase the last vestiges of winter away. I fumble for the sunglasses in my coat pocket, and round the hood of Connor’s truck to the passenger side.
The cloying scent hits me first. A sickeningly sweet mix of almond, honey, and vanilla. Nausea crawls up my throat. A bouquet of white and pink flowers is stuck through the door handle.
The whole world tilts sideways, carrying me with it. I’m so cold. Lying on my back, my arms pulled tight over my head. Snowflakes sting my cheeks. The lanterns swing in the wind, burning bright above me.
My muscles cramp, the pain so intense, it steals my breath.
Voices. All around me. They’re singing. Or chanting. But the words don’t make any sense.
“Please—”
The plea spills from my lips. My shoulder hits cold metal, and I’m falling. Somewhere close, Belle whines, but I can’t see her. Can’t get to her. My knees give out.
I can feel the poison stealing my life away. My heart beat slows. A knife glints in my periphery. This is it. This is when Prophet kills me.