Hiro didn't respond. He just gestured toward the open door. “No problem, Velma.”
Smirking, I headed to Mami's bedroom, carrying the twins' secret like a stone in my chest. When I entered, it was like stepping into a painting that had started to bleed off its canvas.
Where Yuki's room was quiet gray, Mami's was saturated in red.
And not just one red, but layers of it.
Deep wine-red curtains pooled against the floor. Burnt scarlet throw pillows scattered across a low crimson armchair. A rust-red rug sprawled under a bedspread splattered—literally—with flecks and smears of dried paint.
I quirked my brows. “Red. Everywhere.”
Hiro stayed near the wall. “What does the red tell you?”
I got a closer look at the curtains. “Red is one of the most volatile colors. It’s emotionally loud. Physiologically loud. Humans react to it whether they want to or not.”
“How do humans react to it?”
“It increases respiration rate and blood pressure. It physically stimulates you. Makes your brain alert. Heightens everything—anger, hunger, desire, fear. That’s why stop signs are red.”
“That fits.”
Canvases leaned against nearly every inch of wall space. Some half-finished, others complete and waiting for frames.
An easel commanded the space directly in front of the far window—north-facing probably for consistent light.
Hmmm.
I went to the painting and looked at it. The cliffs were a bruised violet, the water a sharp turquoise, the sky streaked in violent streaks of sunset. It made the place look both beautiful and like it might decide to kill you.
Mami is very intense.
The smell of linseed oil and turpentine wrapped around me, threaded through with something floral—the ghost of perfume caught in fabric and paint.
Hiro spoke, "I didn’t realize Mami was so messy."
"Many artistic geniuses are, and she’s a damn good artist."
I lifted my phone, turned on the video to record, and did a slow turning shot—canvases, paint-splattered drop cloths, stacks and stacks of sketchbooks, a small table with jars of cloudy water, brushes standing up like wilted flowers.
Tons of shoes, shirts, and art books were scattered across the floor.
The bed looked like the only thing she'd tried to tame—ruby red duvet pulled neat and tight, cherry-shaped pillows had been arranged just so.
That snagged my attention.
Everything else screamed movement.
Chaos.
Life mid-creation.
Only the bed was perfect.
My instincts pricked up like a cat's ears.
The bed being the only neat thing in the entire room told me more than the paint-splattered chaos ever could. In environmental psychology, an obsessively perfect bed in an otherwise explosive space usually meant one thing.
Control.
