“Exactly.” A pause stretches between us. “Let’s have lunch after I submit the review? I could use a friendly face after writing about those chocolates.”
I glance at my calendar—three canvases still need finishing touches before next week, but Maya needs me. Art can wait.
“Absolutely. I’ll be at the office finishing up some paperwork for the gallery. Could we go to Thai Palace? I’ve been craving their green curry for days.”
“Oh god, yes.” Maya’s voice lightens immediately. “I need a good pad thai.”
“Perfect.” I smile, relieved to hear her sounding more like herself. “We’ll order extra spicy, just how we like it.”
“Shall I meet you there, or do you want to swing by my office?” Maya asks.
“I’ll meet you at your office, and we’ll walk,” I reply.
“It’s a date,” Maya states.
I twist the cap back onto my paints. “And Maya? If these chocolates are really giving you the creeps, maybe just... don’t try any more of them?”
“I don’t plan on trying more.” She pauses. “But I appreciate the concern. See you tomorrow.”
After we hang up, I stand there holding my phone, staring at the nebula pink I’d mixed. What was I doing again? Right—the seventh canvas. The problem child.
I reach for my brush, then notice the ultramarine smudge on my temple in the reflectionof my phone screen. When did that get there? Probably when I was twirling my hair. I’m always doing that, leaving little paint trails across my skin like breadcrumbs marking where my hands have wandered.
Focus. Canvas. Twilight colors.
But my brain has already latched onto Maya’s voice, the way it went tight and small when she talked about those chocolates. Dark intention. What does dark intention even taste like? I try to imagine it—bitter? Metallic? Or maybe it’s more textural, like the difference between smooth ganache and grainy chocolate that’s been overheated.
I pick up the brush. Put it down. Pick up a different one.
The thing about having a brain like mine is that thoughts don’t file themselves neatly into folders labeled “Important” and “Deal With Later.” They all shout at once, demanding equal attention. Right now, Maya’s weird chocolatier is competing with the seven-canvas series, which is competing with the memory of that duck-moose latte art, which somehow connects to a documentary about constellation patterns I watched three weeks ago.
I need to move. Standing still makes the thoughts louder.
I pace between my easel and the window, counting my steps. Twelve across. Twelve back. The rhythm sometimes helps; it gives my brain something mechanical to latch onto while the creative parts work in the background.
Except now I’m thinking about Maya’s synesthesia versus my own brain wiring. She tastes emotions. I see patterns everywhere—in paint splatters, in the way shadows fall, in the arrangement of coffee mugs on my counter that I absolutely cannot rearrange because they’re positioned exactly right, even though I can’t explain why.
My phone is still in my hand. When did I pick it back up?
I set it down deliberately on the paint-splattered table, then immediately check to make sure it’s not too close to the turpentine jar. Move it three inches left. Better.
The seventh canvas stares at me, waiting.
3
GABE
The leather seat creaks as I shift my weight, eyes fixed on the unmarked door across the alley. I check my watch—8:58 PM. Reynolds is nothing if not predictable. The councilman’s clockwork habits make him both successful and vulnerable.
I take a slow sip of coffee, grimacing at how cold it is now. Two hours in a parked car will do that. The radio plays jazz softly—Miles Davis, “Kind of Blue.” Appropriate mood music for tonight’s performance.
My phone vibrates once. It’s a text from Adrian.
Ready. Owner counting cash in the office.
I don’t reply. No need. Our choreography was mapped out days ago, and each step was rehearsed mentally. Adrian always prefers being inside, setting the stage. I prefer to watch from afar before making my entrance, observing patterns, and being ready to adapt if necessary.
A black Audi turns into the alley, headlights briefly illuminating puddles from yesterday’s rain, righton time. The car stops, and Reynolds emerges, glancing furtively over both shoulders. His salt-and-pepper hair catches the dim security light as he straightens his tie—as if anyone cares how he looks for what comes next.
