“Why did you stop?”
She shrugged, that sunshine brightness dimming for half a second. “Life gets busy. Things change. I used to paint during school, but I haven’t touched a brush since school ended.”
“That’s not an answer to my question. I asked why.”
“It’s the answer I am choosing to give you, so accept it.”
I stepped closer. She stiffened, just slightly, then held her ground, stubborn to her last breath.
“What do you paint?” I asked.
Her gaze darted to the floor, then back to the crate. “Landscapes, portraits, abstracts. Anything that shows light.”
“Light,” I echoed, utterly fascinated by everything that came out of her mouth.
“Yes.”
I looked at her then, really looked, and understood more than she intended to reveal. There was something poetic in her choosing that subject. Because it fully reflected the person that she was. Someone full of colors, warmth, and light. Everything I wasn’t.
She caught the shift in my expression and immediately bristled. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you just figured something out about me.”
“Did I?”
“No.” Her cheeks warmed again. “Stop.”
I didn’t. Couldn’t. She turned away quickly, pretending to study the next crate as the guards pried it open. Another burst of color. Another quiet inhale from her. She looked restless. IfI stood long enough, I could practically feel the energy buzzing under her skin. The need to touch, to create, to do something instead of hide inside the walls I’d put around her. It was the first sign that she was returning to herself after the attack. And I wasn’t going to let that flicker die.
“I’ll be in my office,” I said, though I had no intention of staying there.
She waved me off without looking, absorbed in analyzing brushstrokes on paintings that I had bought for exactly this reason. So she could look at them and feel alive again. As soon as I left the room, I took out my phone and dialed Mikhail, who was out for some work.
“Boss?” he asked, picking up the call.
“I need a contractor and someone who understands art and art materials. And bring them in quietly. Ilana shouldn’t find out.”
“Do you want them today?”
“Yes. Right away.”
I hung up.
***
For the next few days, I pretended to work, but most of my attention was on the CCTV feeds that always glowed across the screen in my office. I watched Ilana wandering around the house, humming to herself, several guards in tow as she instructed them which paintings to put where. She compared pieces and rearranged them, then stepped back and tilted her head to survey them before rearranging them again.
She moved around the house as if mapping emotion to space. But once all of it was done, she began sneaking around.
She peeked into rooms she hadn’t explored yet and tucked her hair behind her ear every time she passed a guard, pretending she didn’t care that they were watching. She tiptoed into the halls with the older paintings and then the library and then the storage room, which she didn’t know was locked.
She tested the door. Locked. She whipped around like she expected someone to jump out and catch her.
I pressed the intercom button.
“Ilana.”
