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.
