I frown at Zane until he relents and lets me out, then I show the notice to Clare. “I’ve gotta go collect it before they drop to the next name on the list.” Then I give her a salacious wink, leaning close to whisper, “And in my absence, feel free to do all the things I would never do.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ZANE
It’s nota surprise when Avon doesn’t return from the library. She hasn’t exactly been receptive to my overtures so far. I should stop, part of mewantsto stop, but instead of fading, each passing day makes the connection I felt that first night grow stronger; each new observation fits her broken edges more neatly with mine.
Her talent, similar yet so different. The vibrant emotions that contrast sharply against my stark monotone of anger, an internal landscape I would love to change. The grief over a lost parent; a shared wound.
And her tears, feeding my fetish, but also more than that. A conduit to let me know,this is the one.
I can’t stop trying, especially not now a secret weapon is feeding my hope.
For days, I’ve spent more time on the clone of Avon’s phone than my own screens. I know she looks at online photos of me, even know which is her favourite shot. Her behaviour isborderline stalker, an idea that excites me, proof my obsession isn’t one-sided.
The perusal happens right before she goes to sleep as well, lingering long enough to be doing other things at the same time and god knows I’ve got off a few times thinking of what that might entail.
After Dahlia’s ‘accidental’ slip of the tongue, I thought joining her in art class would be the push she needed. When that wasn’t sufficient, throwing Wilder into the mix seemed a necessary incentive but that play might have backfired.
“She probably started reading about art and completely forgot the rest of the world exists,” Clare tells me from Wilder’s lap. “It’s the same when she has Mr Simmons’ class before lunch, I always have to fetch her.”
“I’ll go hunt her down, then,” I say, nonchalantly getting to my feet like I wasn’t poised, waiting for an excuse. “We don’t want her to starve.”
It doesn’t take long to reach the building, the floor plan smaller than a classroom but two-storeyed to make up for it.
The librarian glances up as I enter. “Have you seen a pink-haired girl? I’m meant to meet her here.”
She points upstairs and I quickly locate Avon, tucked in a corner well away from the other swotting students, a large reference book open on her lap.
“What’re you reading?” I ask in my regular voice, and someone nearby calls out “Shh.”
A brief struggle plays out across her features before she answers in a soft voice. “It’s a book on Missy Danvers. I’m doing an essay on her for art history. She’s my favourite artist.”
“Really.” The name triggers a wave of apprehension, but I fight it back, more used to suppressing my responses than I am to letting them show. I shuffle a tiny step closer. “Favourite New Zealand or favourite ever?”
“Favourite ever.” She frowns at me, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “You know their work?”
“Yeah. I’ve heard of her.”
“Them.” I raise my eyebrows. “When you don’t know the identity, you’re meant to say them.”
“Right. What’d you like aboutthem?”
Her expression is wary, then something must reassure her because she relaxes. “The colour, the brushstrokes. I love the way every piece has a story you can decipher and every time you look there’s another layer, and every layer makes you feel something different.”
“And your favourite piece?”
She scrunches her face, shaking her head. “I couldn’t pick one. There are too many and they’re too different.”
I move a step closer, taking the book from her hands, closing it and placing it on the nearby table. “And weretheyimportant enough to stand up your friend at lunch?”
“You’re not my friend.”
I put my hand over my heart, feigning a death blow. “Actually, I meant Clare. I’ve had to leave her alone in Wilder’s clutches and I’m not sure how to say this, but he’s a bit of a womaniser.”
“Manwhore is the preferred term.”
Her pinch of good humour takes me by surprise like it always does. Probably because the image locked topmost in my frontal cortex is of her hands across her mouth, eyes wide with terror. “And here I was, mistaking you for the woke police.”
