The bed is the most intimate territory a person has. If everything else in their world feels overwhelming—emotion, desire, rejection, longing—they will hyper-manage the one place where their body rests.
A neat bed becomes a boundary.
A sanctuary.
A performance of stability.
Or. . .
A place prepared for someone specific.
Someone she wanted to welcome.
Someone she wanted to impress.
Kenji.
I scanned the messy space. “Okay. At least I can touch things a little more in here and she has no idea that I was even snooping.”
“Good point.”
Since the bed was decently together, I went over there, crouched, and checked underneath. “Oh. This is interesting.”
“What’s there?”
“Tons of boxes of supplies, canvases, fallen brushes with dried paint, more drop cloths.”
“Even messier?”
“Scary messy.” I rose from the floor. “How long have they been on the island?”
“Less than a week. As long as us.”
“And underneath the bed already looks like that? Her room back in Tokyo might have vermin under it.” I went to the top of the bed and wondered if Mami hid things like Yuki.
Would there be another dragon-shaped vibrator under the pillow?
I checked the four large pillows and found nothing. Then, I nudged one of the cherry pillows aside, more to see if anything had been shoved under them than out of suspicion.
A corner of something black peeked out.
What’s that?
I slid my fingers under the pillow and tugged out a sketchbook.
It was thick with a paint-stained cover. The corners were softened from use.
I looked down at it. “Why put this sketchbook here, when all the others are over by the canvases?”
Hiro moved closer and stood at my side. “This might be the naughty one.”
“Or where she will have written, ‘I’m the spy and these are the people I’m working for.’”
Hiro chuckled.
“Wishful thinking.” I laid the sketchbook on the bed and opened it.
The first pages were exactly what I expected: charcoal studies of hands, faces, the twins sparring, Hiro's profile in harsh light, and Kenji's hand holding a glass of whiskey.
