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.”
