Logan groans, standing up off the floor like he’s somebody’s dad. “This isn’t a solution, it’s just a temporary bandage—and a shitty one at that. We’re gonna need to have the electrical rewired sooner rather than later,” he says.
“We’re?” I ask with a smile.
The corner of his mouth tips up. “Did I stutter?”
I stretch up on my tiptoes and pull him down by his neck to kiss him on the cheek. “Ready to pick up where we left off in the attic?” I ask.
Yesterday, I expressed to Logan that I wanted to go through some of Dad’s things. It’s been weeks since I’ve been up there. As usual, he wanted to help—it’s almost like a sixth sense, knowingwhen I’m working up there. Dealing with an emotionally charged task is a lot more bearable when he’s around. He’s strong enough to lift the heavy things I can’t, physically and metaphorically.
“Let’s do it.”
“What if we put some of these sketchbooks in the shop?” I ask, thumbing through the pages of another sketchbook. We’re getting a little sidetracked enjoying the nostalgia of his penmanship and goofy drawings. “You know, like with the portfolio books in the front.”
He shrugs. “Would you ever want to include them with flash? I’m sure people will want them.”
I flip a couple pages, revisiting the images. “Is that weird, though—tattooing his work posthumously?” I ask.
“Only you can decide that, but I don’t think it’s weird. I think he would love for you to be the one to continue his legacy. It might be a cool homage, a few small pieces from his private collection that you’re willing to show the world.”
I like the idea of having more of Dad’s work featured at the shop he started so many years ago; it keeps him alive there. Black Rabbit has always had a heartbeat; the appreciation of art and history of ink run through its walls like a life source. Lines, love, and lineage.
There’s some great work in these sketchbooks—there’s some shit too—but I want to share his doodles and the artistic side of him that was more than flash. He was a talented artist of many styles, but most people only know him for the one.
“I’ll pick out a few to set aside,” I say, nodding and selecting four of my favorites. I carry them over to the attic ladder and set them beside the opening so I don’t forget to take them down. Out of the corner of my eye, a small red light reflects off a mirror Logan moved earlier. It’s just behind the attic hatch. I cock my head to the side, pushing off the floor of the attic, and walk over to the mirror, following the reflection to the source.
The hatch.
There’s something electronic on the attic door hatch. It’s hidden well, but it’s not supposed to be there. I run my fingers over it, and there’s another that matches it on the frame of the opening, but that one is painted over, so it’s better camouflaged.Holy shit.
“Logan! Come over here.” I gasp, pointing at the small shiny inlaid device. “Do you see this?”
He rubs the back of his neck, watching me, then takes in a long, slow breath before reluctantly standing and coming over to see what I’m pointing to.
“Is this some kind of hidden camera?” I ask. “Could the stalker have done this?”
“It’s a security sensor,” he says, stepping down the ladder and carrying the sketchbooks with him. When he reaches the main level, he sets the books on a small hallway table and motions me to come down the ladder.Why is he not freaking out right now?
“Logan, I didn’t install a security sensor!” Someone came into my house and put that here. God, this is a nightmare that never ends. “Someone is watching me.”
His shoulders rise when he takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “Come down here.”
Shit.
Kelly walks down the stairs and stands next to me, not taking her eye off the small sensor, as if it’s a bomb about to detonate. I push the ladder up, shutting the attic hatch, then hit the switch on the wall, releasing the attic door. My phone dings, and I show her the notification on my screen:Attic door open.
“I installed it. It tells me when you go into the attic.”
She blinks at me. Her gaze oscillates between the screen and me before gingerly taking it from my hands. “When did you do this?” she whispers, staring at the notification.
“A couple years ago.” I peel the phone from her grasp, lock the screen, and tuck it back into my pocket.
She shakes off the shock. “Did you sayyears?”
I exhale. “Yes.”
“Why?” she bites out. Here comes the anger.
“I wanted to know when you were going through his things. After he died, you didn’t want anything to do with his belongings. However, once you were ready, you would lose yourself in this attic for hours, sometimes days. You weren’t picking up your phone or responding to texts. Every Tuesday, you walked into work looking exhausted, like you had barely slept during your days off. What was I supposed to do? Just sit back while you buried yourself alive in his memories and things? I wanted to know when you needed help without being intrusive.”
