I shrug. “I was home.”
“Alone?” he cuts in, sharp.
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“Ten.”
“In the evening?”
A nod. No hesitation. I know this part of the story. I’ve had to tell it many times.
“I finished my dinner. I got up to push my bowl away. When I stood up, he was there. A hood over his face.” My voice thins. This time, it’s my empty cup that creaks.
Hendrick rises. His hand grips my shoulder then drops to liberate my tea cup. The fight isn’t worth it, and I let him have it. “I’ll refill it for you. Tell me what he did.”
I stare at my empty hands. “Nothing.” He walks away. “The first time.”
The hitch in Hendrick’s step is telling. That wasn’t in the file. I’m off script now.
“The first time, he stood there. Did nothing.” I cough. The tea cup reappears, filled with hot fluids. I smile my thanks, though I know my lips don't really move that much.
“And the second time?”
I warm my hands on the cup. “The lock was broken. After a performance. Windows smashed. My music was everywhere. And my mirrors shattered.”
“Anything taken?”
I shake my head. “Not that I know about.”
He stays still. Too still.
“Hendrick?” Our roles are reversed. Now it’s me asking the questions. Hot liquid scalds my sore throat as I drink. He’s right. Pain is an excellent distraction.
“Where do you keep your early work?”
I blink. Look up at him. “With my photos. Wait. How do you know?—”
His mouth is a hard line. And I know. Because he knows.
I am not the only one who went off script.
“Why don’t I know that? Why didn’t she tell me?” I slam the cup down hard enough for it to crack. I don’t know. Maybe it does. Hot water slops over the side, stinging my hand. I don’t care about that, either. I stare down at Hendrick, who doesn't move. “Why?” I rasp. My throat runs rawer than ever.
His gaze is heavy. “I don’t know."
“Whyme?”
The corner of his mouth flickers. “Because your music is good. Because you are beautiful.”
“Fuck being beautiful.” I rake my nails across my collarbone, tearing at the skin. Suddenly, it’s all too tight, all too close. I want out, and I can't move. I can’t leave.
Suddenly, I wish the bullet had hit home last night, after all.
As if reading my mind, Hendrick slammed to his feet, his hand gripping my wrist firmly. “Don’t hurt yourself.” It's a command, one I hate.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I hiss. It’s all I have left as I tug my arm away from him. He lets me go and I stumble back, shock loosening my lips. “What?”
