I try again. Still nothing.
Damien comes out a moment later, coat open, shoulders tense. “Any luck?”
“She’s not here,” I say, pacing along the edge of the courtyard. “She didn’t go back upstairs either. She’s gone.”
He frowns, glancing toward the parking lot. “You think she went to the car?”
“Maybe.” I start walking before he finishes the sentence. The automatic doors hiss open again behind me. The wind bites harder out here, cold enough to sting my skin.
We weave between the cars, our breath ghosting in the cold. The wind cuts through the lot, sharp and empty.
“Willow!” I call once, scanning row after row. Nothing. Just silence and the hum of the hospital lights above us.
Nothing.
Damien slows beside me, scanning the edges of the walkway. “Cast…” he starts, but he doesn’t finish.
I turn a slow circle, the night pressing close. No movement. No trace of her. Just the empty benches, the faint hum of the fountain’s frozen motor, the distant shuffle of hospital staff behind glass.
My chest tightens, breath coming uneven. “She’s gone,” I say quietly, the words small and final in the cold.
Damien looks at me, eyes wide, worry cutting through the last of his calm.
And I can’t even move. Because saying it out loud makes it real?—
Willow is gone.
13
WILLOW
My ears ring.A low, relentless buzz, like bees trapped behind my eyes. The room tilts when I move, light cutting through the darkness in thin, merciless lines. My head’s heavy, my mouth tastes like smoke and sleep. I drag myself upright, sweat cooling on my skin, muscles aching.
The world steadies by degrees, shapes congealing out of blur: the ceiling low and sweating, the air thick with damp and something metallic. My wrists don’t want to move. That’s when the realization catches up—coarse rope bites into my skin, sticky with half-dried blood. My hands are bound behind me. My ankles too.
I blink hard. It’s dark, but not completely. A single bulb dangles from a chain above, its light jaundiced and trembling. It sways, throwing shadows across the concrete—shapes that crawl and stretch like they’re alive. The floor is stained in places. Brown. Rust, or blood.
There’s a drain in the middle of the room. Rust circles the edges, dried and dark, like something old has seeped into the concrete. My stomach turns over hard.
This isn’t the hospital. It isn’t anywhere I’ve ever seen.
The air hangs heavy, thick with the sting of turpentine and the metallic bite of iron. It smells too familiar—like my studio, but spoiled, as if someone took the comfort out of it and left only the fumes.
Shapes come into focus as my eyes adjust. An easel sits in the corner. A stool. Blank canvases stacked against the wall, a jar of brushes lined up on the table. Mine. The tips are worn in the same uneven way, the wood stained with years of paint. A rag is draped over the side of the sink, streaked a deep red that’s too dark to tell if it’s pigment or blood.
A slow scrape drags through the air. Wet. Rhythmic. Paint thick enough to stick before it spreads.
A man stands behind the easel. His back shifts with each motion—shoulders rising, arm flexing, the brush arcing across canvas in small, careful sweeps. The sound fills the space, louder than my own breath.
The light catches the edge of his jaw, the smear of red along his sleeve. His humming keeps time with the brush—low, tuneless, almost gentle. The kind of sound people make to soothe themselves when no one’s watching.
He pauses. The brush stills mid-stroke.
A second of silence stretches too long. Then he lowers his arm and sets the brush in a jar. The handle clinks against glass.
When he turns, the light catches his face.
The smile starts small, pulling slowly at one corner like it hasn’t been used in a while. His eyes shine too much, pupils blown wide, rims red as if he’s been awake for days.
