Chapter 15 Willow
WILLOW
The gun rests on Justin’s knee, angled toward the floor. His finger hovers beside the trigger—close enough to matter. The safety is off. Metal glints beneath the yellow light.
“Straighten your wrist,” he says. “You keep turning it.”
The easel stands a few feet away. My left wrist is tied behind the chair; my right hand is free.
The rope is damp and grinds my skin raw when I move.
The air reeks of turpentine, oil, and rust from the drain in the center of the floor.
It’s cold enough that the paint has begun to stiffen on the palette.
“Start again,” he says. “You’re not seeing me right.”
I dip the brush in red. The color is thick; the first stroke drags unevenly across the canvas. My shoulder throbs.
“Better,” he murmurs. “Now the face.”
His tone stays calm, instructional—like we’re in a lesson instead of a basement. The gun shifts as he moves. The lamp hums above. Somewhere behind the wall, water drips in the pipes.
“You never painted him,” Justin says. “Not once. You couldn’t. You’d have to look too close.”
“Justin—”
“Quiet.” His bloodshot eyes catch the light. “You let him buy you. You let him drain everything that made you real.”
I pull another line. It runs too long; the brush shakes.
“Stop thinking about him,” he says. “Just paint.”
“I am.”
“Not like that.” He leans closer, breath sour with coffee. “You used to paint with pain. You used to mean it. Now it’s all soft edges and reviews.”
“I’m not your project.”
He smiles without warmth. “You’re my proof. You could’ve been great if he hadn’t touched you.”
He stands, crosses to the table, and unzips a duffel bag. The metal teeth scrape loudly. Inside—stacks of cash bound with rubber bands, some stained dark.
He tosses one bundle at my feet. “Know what this is?”
I stay silent.
“Beaumont money,” he says. “Every dollar he stole when he cut people like my father off the payroll. Eighteen years gone in one memo. No pension. No insurance. My father died in debt while your husband smiled for the cameras.”
He kicks the bag; more bundles spill out. “This is his blood. His legacy. I took it for you—for us. You won’t need him after tonight.”
“You stole from him?”
“I reclaimed it.” He crouches, eyes wild. “He’s not the victim. You are.”
He grips the chair back and tilts it forward until my balance slips. “You can’t see it yet, but I’m fixing you. I’m giving you back your art.”
“You tied me to a chair.”
“To keep you from running. You’re addicted to the poison he gave you. I’m detoxing you.”
He steps behind me. The gun clicks as he checks the chamber. His breath grazes my ear. “When he’s gone, you’ll remember who you are.”
I stare at the painting. The figure isn’t him—it’s gray, hollow.
“Fix it.”
“No.”
He yanks my hair, forcing my head up. “You think this is a joke?”
“I think you’re sick.”
His jaw tightens. “Say that again.”
The lamp flickers. Shadows jump across the wall. I don’t move.
He releases me, steps back, and laughs once—sharp, wrong. “You’ll understand soon. When you see him on the floor, you’ll feel it lift off you.”
He tears another bundle open. Bills scatter across the concrete. He crouches, holding one under the light. “You see this? This is how he builds his empire—off our backs.”
He drops it, eyes back on the canvas. “You’re not done. Keep going.”
My hand trembles as I lift the brush. The turpentine stings my throat.
Justin paces, the gun always in his right hand. Each pass tightens the air, the rope grinding deeper into my wrist when I flinch.
“You think I don’t know what you feel for him,” he says. “I’ve seen your interviews. You worship him like a god. But he’s just a parasite.”
“He’s my husband.”
“He’s your cage.” His tone sharpens. “He owns your name, your face, your work. Everything you touch becomes an ad for him.”
He stops, studying the canvas. “You still can’t tell the truth. You’re scared.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” His hand trembles as he gestures at the painting. “You think he’ll save you, but he won’t. He’s a stain—rot in a suit.”
A bill near my foot curls in melted snow from his boots.
Justin rubs his eyes. “He’s coming. I knew he would find you.”
The brush slips from my hand. “What?”
“He’s your husband with ties to the Cartel. I knew he would come.” He rocks on his heels, excitement keeping him on his toes. “ I want him to see what he did.”
“You want him here?” I ask, trying to keep the nerves out of my voice.
“I want him to see the truth. He’ll watch you remember who you were before he ruined you.”
He raises the gun. “Finish the painting.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” He points the barrel at the canvas. “You’re not done until I say you’re done.”
I dip the brush. The bristles drag dry against the surface, scratching the air. My throat tightens; my pulse fills the silence.
Justin steps closer. “There. That’s real. Keep going.”
The bulb hums, the wire trembling overhead. Justin’s head jerks up.
A groan rolls through the ceiling—boards shifting under weight. His pulse kicks; I see it jump at his throat.
“That’s him,” he breathes, almost smiling.
“It’s the house,” I whisper.
His grin sharpens. “No. He’s here.”
The rope chews into my wrist. Each twist draws blood. A single strand gives way, the fibers fraying in silence.
Justin edges toward the stairs, gun raised. The steps creak under his boots. He pauses midway, listening—breath shallow, eyes bright with something close to joy. Then he backs down, a tremor running through his hand.
“He’s inside.”
He flips the switch. The light dies. Darkness folds over us except for the faint snowlight spilling through the high window. The air turns colder, sharp enough that I can taste iron in it.
“Stay quiet.” His voice trembles with anticipation more than fear.
The rope slips again. My wrist burns.
Above, the house exhales—a hinge, a door, the sigh of winter air moving through an open space.
Justin’s face lights with it. His smile breaks wide, unsteady. He braces the gun in both hands, body quivering like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life.
“Vincent Beaumont!” His voice rips through the dark, echoing off the concrete. “Come see what you built!”
The noise stills everything. A pause, then a voice answers—low, controlled.
“Put the gun down.”
Cast.
Another voice follows, calm but closer. “Let her go.”
Justin presses the barrel to my temple. His breath shakes, warm against my hair.
“You came.”
Vincent says nothing, still somewhere on the stairs.
“You took everything from me,” Justin breathes. “My father. My work. Her. You don’t get to keep any of it.”
Cast’s voice drops low. “Let her go, Justin.”
“No,” Justin says. “She’s my proof. You turned her into a ghost. I’m showing you what’s left.”
The rope slips another inch. My wrist slick with sweat and blood.
Vincent moves down one step. The wood groans.
Justin shifts, using me as cover. The gun digs into my jaw.
“You’re not a savior,” Justin says. “You’re a thief.”
Vincent’s voice stays calm. “We can talk.”
“There’s nothing left to talk about.” Justin’s voice cracks. “I’m done being ignored.”
Cast takes another step.
“Stop moving!” Justin’s voice breaks. The gun trembles against my skull.
Cast freezes. “Okay.”
The air tightens. My mouth tastes like metal.
“You built an empire on broken people,” Justin spits. “You made art into currency. You made her a product.”
Vincent’s tone doesn’t change. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand enough,” Justin says. “And when you’re gone, maybe she’ll remember what real feels like.”
He adjusts his aim.
The rope gives. My hand rips free, skin tearing. Heat shoots up my arm.
I drop back into him, slamming my shoulder under his arm. The shot cracks into the doorframe. Splinters rain down.
Cast moves first, striking Justin’s wrist, driving him into the post. Another shot tears the ceiling. Dust falls. The chain of the lamp rattles once and stills.
“Down,” Vincent says, dragging me behind the easel. “Stay.”
Cast and Justin crash into the table. The duffel slides. Cash bursts open. Cast twists Justin’s wrist. Justin snarls, clawing at his face. Cast slams him into the post again. Air leaves Justin in a groan.
“Let it go.” Cast says.
Justin drives a knee into his thigh. Cast tightens his grip. The gun drops, clattering under the table.
Justin snatches a box cutter, flicks it open, and slashes. The blade grazes Cast’s side. Cast grunts, grabs his belt, and throws him down. The cutter spins into the drain.
“Vincent,” Cast says, eyes still on Justin. “Find her.”
“I have her,” Vincent answers from the shadows.
Justin rolls, scrabbling through scattered bills and melted snow. He dives under the table and grabs the gun. Cast reaches, misses by inches, and takes a punch to the jaw. He recovers fast—but too late.
Justin rises to one knee, muzzle aimed at Vincent.
Vincent raises his hands, steady, and steps in front of me. “Stop.”
Justin breathes hard. “You finally show your face when it’s about you.” Spit runs at the corner of his mouth. “Not when men lose everything. Only when the camera points at home.”
“It’s not how you think,” Vincent says.
“It’s exactly what I think.” Justin steadies the gun with both hands. “My father took orders for eighteen years. He got a slip and a handshake. He coughed himself to death in a rented room. Your company sent a letter. I burned it. I kept the envelope to remember your name.”
“I’m sorry about your father,” Vincent says. “But this won’t fix it.”
“You don’t get to say sorry,” Justin says. “You don’t get to keep breathing. You turned her work into something you could hang above a bar cart and call it taste.”
Cast circles left, weight on the balls of his feet, trying to cut the angle. Justin shifts with him, keeping the muzzle on Vincent. He flicks a glance at me, then back to Vincent.
“I told you I’d clean you out of her,” he says. “I will.”