We pull up to Savannah’s house, Bast’s SUV in the drive instead of hers. Because hers is a pile of twisted metal and shattered glass. Malakai and Olivia are here too. The door is open and beyond the threshold, I can see her blonde hair. Even from here, I see the ghosts on her shoulders, the way they droop telling me all I need to know.
Everything tells me to wrap her up, bring her in and shut out the world.
To protect her.
To love her.
But that time died at the same time her memories did.
Chapter Forty-one
Iremember this house, remember the cobwebs and the holes in the walls, the creaky and missing floorboards.
The last memory I have of this place is of it being a shell, but I still offered on it and I still got it. I don’t remember painting these walls and putting in this furniture. My first house,my home, and it’s nothing but stale air and paint colors I don’t remember picking.
I wrap my arms around myself as if it can hold together all the broken pieces. New fractures appear every day. I am falling apart.
“Anything?” Bast asks hopefully, glancing around at all the furniture and… art.
There’s a framed hand painted piece of art hanging above the mantel, framed in gold and it’s the most perfect sunset, in the colors I love.
“A periwinkle sunset,” Killian’s voice speaks from behind me.
I watch Bast flick his eyes to him and then to the painting, “Do you remember buying it?”
“No,” I sigh.
“You didn’t buy it,” Killian offers the information.
“She didn’t?” Bast questions.
“No,” Killian buries his hands in his pockets, eyes on the painting instead of my brother, “I did.”
My eyes widen, “What?”
“A housewarming gift,” His throat bobs with a swallow, “I got it for you.”
“It’s gorgeous,” I whisper, “Who’s the artist?”
Killian shrugs, “Some unknown.”
“Oh,” I move closer to the painting, seeing each delicate brush stroke, each highlight to replicate the sun’s rays buried behind clouds of pinks and purples and deep oranges, “That’s a shame, but thank you, I love it.”
“I know,” He answers me.
“Oh, of course,” I feel my cheeks burn, “We’ve probably done this already.”
I wish I remembered it. For him to gift me something so perfect, so beautiful, it’s truly a crime I don’t have the memory, almost as much as not knowing who the artist is. They’ve gotten every detail perfect, every ounce of light and shadow, every curve and blend. It’s as if they’ve plucked the sunset of my dreams straight from my head and put it on paper. It’s the type of sunset I chase, the ones I live for.
We continue through the rest of the house, everything as I expect it to be, my vision come to life but then we come to a door just off of the kitchen.
The studio.
“Can I have a minute?” I ask.
I want to do this room alone. I don’t know if it’s what I expect it to be, if it’s still a shell waiting to add character and design but it’smysacred space. It’s mine, my dreams and wishes.
“Of course,” My brother says just as Willow squeezes my hand; her other arm occupied by her sleeping daughter. When everyone is gone and their voices carry in from the living room, I unlock the door and step inside, my breath immediately catching in my throat.
