“I don’t know how all y’all listen to those shows.” Shelby shakes her head. Her face has relaxed somewhat, her cheeks pinking up again. “I would have nightmares for weeks.”
I laugh. “It’s not the best at bedtime.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re all right,” she says, standing. “I know you have a lot to do, with work, so I’ll let you get back to it.”
I open the studio’s door. “Shelby?”
“Yes, honey?”
“I hope I have your discretion,” I say. “I’ve, uh, signed a nondisclosure agreement saying I won’t show the art to anyone. And obviously I messed up, with the door. I’m sorry to put you in this position, but I would appreciate it if you could keep this whole thing between us? Even Wyatt can’t know. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize my fee.Especially not with the baby almost here, and Clem’s new school costs. I’m sure you understand?”
Shelby smiles warmly, though there’s a hint of something in her eyes. Worry, I think.Of course she’s worried.My mother-in-law found me drawing my own blood in my studio! Plus, I can’t imagine how the Leclerc affected her, if she got a good look before I came to. It isn’t exactly an uplifting piece of art—the grief in it is raw, visceral. The piece is disturbing both in ways you can put your finger on, and in others you can’t.
But she doesn’t mention any of that. “Our little secret” is all she says.
“Thanks, Shelby.”
She glances at her watch. “Ah, looks like Wyatt and Clem are home. I’ll go scrounge up a snack.”
“I’ll be right down,” I say. I lock the door behind her, trying to control my ragged breathing. What just happened?
Eyes darting into the trash can beside me, I see the blood-filled syringe. My arm has stopped bleeding, though there’s a tiny raised bruise around the pinprick mark.
“What the hell is going on?” I whisper, a swell of panic settling into my chest.
With quick fingers I grab the syringe and cap it, then swivel from one side of the room to the other, trying to figure out what to do with it. I can’t just toss it—it’s a biohazard. What if Clementine were to find it somehow? Besides, garbage collection isn’t for another five days. I consider discarding the blood down the sink, hiding the syringe somewhere safe until garbage day. But it feels too risky with everyone home, the washroom sink a full flight of stairs below.
Opening the desk’s top drawer I see the old plastic silverware tray I’ve repurposed to hold my tools. I tuck the capped syringe into the longest slot, at the back, which is three-quarters full of paintbrushes of varying sizes. You have to open the drawer all the way to reach it,and I know even the most curious in my house, Clementine, would be unlikely to find the syringe hidden under the brushes. Even if she were to breach my trust by opening my desk.
I open and close the drawer a few times, making sure it stays hidden, then decide to lock it for good measure. I’ll get rid of the syringe when I put out the rest of the trash later in the week.
There. We’re okay, I think, trying to center myself before I join Shelby downstairs. As I breathe deeply through my nose, out my mouth, it doesn’t occur to me to question who else I’m referring to, with my use of “we’re.”
“Your pressure continues to be elevated.” Ana is analyzing my biometric data. She looks up from her tablet with a frown. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Good,” I reply, with enough confidence that I hope it rings true.
The bizarre syringe incident was two days ago, and I’m relieved Shelby seems to have stuck to her promise. Wyatt’s none the wiser, nor is MotherWise. However, I won’t relax until I get the syringe out of the house. I’ve been sleeping poorly again, having nightmares, and it all seems to be affecting my blood pressure.
“No complaints,” I add. “Except for this beach ball I seem to have swallowed. I haven’t seen my toes in about a week.” I laugh, but it fades quickly when Ana doesn’t join me.
“Hmm. Well, we need to see this trending in the other direction, pronto. Have you been doing your breath work? Three times a day?”
I nod. Again, a lie because I’ve maybe done it once a day, if that. And I skipped last night’s breath work class with Maeve and Kat,citing mom homework-helper duties (another lie). I’m afraid to be alone with Maeve, if I’m being honest. She has always been able to read me and I’m holding a lot inside. One small push and it might spill out. Plus, Kat’s a direct line to Wyatt these days and I can’t risk further meddling, no matter how well-intentioned. Not at this stage. I have to get this conservation finished. I need to get this painting out of my house.
Ana waits for me to say more; I resist buckling under her gaze.
“I need you to log the sessions, Mathilde. It doesn’t look like you’ve been doing that.” She’s pointing to the analysis—the breath work box showing “0.”Shit.
“Yes, sorry. There have been a lot of distractions, and sometimes I forget that step.”
“You and I both know you can log it with your watch.” Ana raises a brow, and I nod sheepishly. I should have logged sessions, even if I didn’t do them. But honestly, breath work has been the last thing on my mind. “Easy-peasy, Mathilde. So let’s make sure we do that.”
Yes, let’s make sure we do that.
“I forgot about my watch,” I reply, desperate to get off this topic. The more Ana digs in, the more likely it is I’ll screw up. “I don’t always wear it when I work.”
Damn.Wrong answer. I am supposed to be wearing my watch twenty-four seven.
