Chapter 19
The overhead lights buzzed faintly as she moved among the easels, offering recommendations and praise.
Her Wednesday night class was winding down.
Normally, she enjoyed watching her beginners’ progress with each session, but tonight, she was ready to be done.
Only halfway through the week, and she was already wiped out.
Erica stopped beside Jerome, eyeing yet another lavender-and-eggplant sky.
“Less purple, more depth,” she advised gently.
Jerome grinned sheepishly at his canvas. “I like purple.”
“I know you do,” she said, pointing to the horizon line. “But without contrast, it’s flat.”
He seemed unsure, but added a streak of burnt orange. Then he tilted his head, looking at it from a different place. “You’re right,” he said, blending in more.
She moved on, her mind drifting.
Since the cookout on Saturday, nothing had happened. No strange cars. No glowing cigarettes. And blessedly, no horrific visions or dreams.
She was embarrassed to admit she’d stalked Shannon on social media. Her last two posts were the Dallas skyline on Instagram and a political function with the senator on Facebook. Both perfectly normal. Too normal.
It had her on edge as she waited for the other shoe to drop. Because in her life, there was always another shoe.
“Erica?”
Pulled out of her thoughts, she turned to Jerome. “Sorry. My mind drifted.”
He stepped back from his easel. “Better?”
Still more eggplant than natural, giving it a sci-fi feel, but she smiled. “Much.”
By nine, brushes clinked in jars, easels had been folded and tucked away, and polite goodbyes echoed through the gallery as her students drifted toward the exit.
Jerome was the last to leave.
“See you next week,” he said.
“Looking forward to it. Maybe we can try indigo and contrast with pink.”
“I was thinking something bold, like ultramarine.” He grinned and disappeared through the door.
She shook her head, watching him pass the window, and made a mental note to hide the purple hues before he arrived.
“I love them all,” her assistant said as she wiped down the long table. “But I thought class would never end tonight. I’m starving.”
Wednesdays were always long days. Anna was the only help she had in the gallery, all she could currently afford, and she wanted to keep her.
“Go,” she told her. “I’ll lock up.”
“Are you sure? You worked through lunch, too.”
“This won’t take long.”
“No need to twist my arm.” Anna grabbed her purse from behind the front counter. “Night!”
Erica gathered stray rags and brushes, closed paint tubes, and set them on the tray she carried to the sink in her studio. As she cleaned brushes, she hummed. Musically inclined, she was not, but who was there to hear?
When the bell over the door chimed, she shut the water off and reached for the towel, but it wasn’t there.
“I’m closing up,” she called, scanning the counters for it.
Footsteps rang out. “I think you’ll want to stay and talk to me.”
Hands dripping, she turned as Darren Holt appeared in the doorway.
It had been years since El Paso, but she recognized him instantly. He looked much less polished than she remembered—longer hair, stubbled rather than clean-shaven, and a rumpled shirt that looked slept in.
His eyes were the same. Not warm. Never kind. Always calculating. His ever-present spiral notebook was still there, too, jutting from his shirt pocket.
Being alone with him made her skin crawl. “What do you want, Mr. Holt?”
“You remember me. I’m honored.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I also remember the worst bout of flu I’ve ever had.”
He smiled without warmth. “I wanted to talk privately.”
“Perhaps you should have called and made an appointment.” She would have said no then, too.
“I tried.”
“Where? Here?” She glanced at the multi-line phone on the counter, right next to her cell phone. “I didn’t receive any messages.”
“Because I didn’t leave any.”
His curt answers were already wearing thin. “I’m closing up. Now isn’t a good time.”
He didn’t move. “I’ve written one article already.”
“I saw. I’m assuming the nontraditional source you cited but didn’t name was me.”
“I was being generous.”
She crossed her arms. “Generous implies I owe you something.”
“Don’t you?”
“Hardly. I recall you being critical, demeaning, and rude. I don’t reward those behaviors with further conversation. Please leave.”
Any warmth vanished. “You live across from a murder scene. You have a documented history of assisting law enforcement in unconventional ways.”
“There’s that word again,” she scoffed.
“And…” He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “You were observed leaving the scene with two Texas Rangers.” Holt pulled the notebook free and flipped it open, scanning a page before continuing. “Ranger O’Reilly and Lieutenant Cooper, who is leading the investigation. Ring a bell?”
“As you said. I live across from the crime scene. It’s natural for them to question everyone.” She inched toward the counter, but he moved with her. “You’re grasping at straws, Mr. Holt. You have no proof that I’m involved in anything. El Paso ended that for me. In no small part because of you.”
He closed the distance. Enough for her to see the dark under-eye smudges of fatigue.
“I don’t need confirmation. I need positioning.” He said it a bit too fast, undercutting the calm he was trying to portray.
“Positioning for what?” she asked.
“For my next piece.”
Her pulse ticked up. “And that would say?”
“Either my version of the truth, or yours. It’s up to you.”
“What happened? You had credibility once. Print lies, and you’re no better than a tabloid hack.”
His head jerked ever so slightly. She’d struck a nerve.
“Credibility doesn’t pay the bills. Meeting deadlines does. Besides, I have proximity. A pattern of behavior. And a name.”
“That’s not journalism. That’s speculation.”
“It’s momentum.”
His gaze cut briefly to the front windows. Hers followed, seeing nothing.
When he looked at her again, his expression was closed off. “My motivations aren’t your concern.”
“They become my concern if you print my name.”
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “You think the article is what should worry you?”
A chill slid through her. “What does that mean?”
He studied her face as if weighing something. “I’ve already had a few doors close this week. People who used to answer my calls aren’t picking up.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because once I publish the next piece, doors are going to slam.”
“On you?”
“On everyone.”
“I’m done with this,” she muttered, reaching her phone in three quick steps. She tapped the screen and held it up, glad for Face ID. “If you don’t leave now, I will involve the police.”
“You won’t call the cops. You risk exposure, which you’re fighting desperately to avoid. Just like in El Paso.”
“I’ve got a Ranger on speed dial. Try me.”
For the first time, doubt crossed his face. “You have forty-eight hours,” he said, holding out a business card.
She didn’t take it.
He set the card on the counter. “I publish Friday morning,” he warned. “All of it.”
His footsteps echoed faster than earlier as he crossed to the door. He paused with his hand on the push bar. “If I were you, I’d decide whether you want to step into the light with your narrative or try to live in the shadows with mine.”
The bell chimed as he left, then silence filled the gallery.
Erica remained standing for two rapid heartbeats before her legs gave way. She lurched to a chair and dropped into it.
El Paso had started like this. With speculation. When her name came out, the circus at her home lasted for months. She couldn’t go through that again.
With trembling fingers, she unlocked her phone and pulled up Coop in her favorites.
It rang. Once… Twice…
When it went to voicemail, her free hand curled into a fist.
“Vince,” she said after the tone, fighting for calm. “Call me when you get this.”
She ended the call and sat motionless. She’d been on her own since she was eighteen. A few weeks of support shouldn’t erase the strength she’d built. But she couldn’t pretend the small taste of normal didn’t mean everything.
Her gaze shifted to the still-open front door. She hurried to it, turned the locks, then switched off the lights row by row until the gallery stood in shadow. For a moment, she felt exposed under the streetlamps filtering through the window.
“Step into the light,” she repeated. “Thanks for the advice, Mr. Holt. But no, thanks.”
She didn’t like the light. When it found her, it stripped her apart. That was why she’d moved four times in ten years.
But the shadows were getting dangerous again.
Erica activated the alarm system then dug through her purse for her pepper spray.
She gripped it firmly as she headed outside.
The street was quiet. For a second, she imagined someone watching from across the street.
She scanned quickly, saw no one, but her thumb moved to the trigger as she hurried to her car, never so glad for keyless entry.