“Take the painting out,” Vane says. “Lay it on the floor, right there.” He jerks his head toward a spot near the table.
Gingerly Dorian takes the painting out of the case and places it on the floor. There is no glass over the canvas, only the glistening, oozing surface of the rancid paint within the ornate frame. A stenchlike vomit and rotten meat rises from the picture.
“I could destroy it,” Vane says. “But I think you need to do it yourself and watch it happening.”
“First, let Baz go,” says Dorian tightly.
“In a minute.” Vane’s voice trembles, but there’s a vindictive eagerness in his tone. No regret. Not a shred of mercy. “There’s turpentine on that table,” he continues. “Open the bottle, and pour it over the painting.”
Turpentine is paint thinner—useful for artists, but when dumped onto a fragile, ancient portrait—
“No!” I scream, and I start to wrench free of Vane—fuck the gun, fuck my own life—but he’s got my wrist still, and he bends my hand backward so far that something pops and I shriek. Stars erupt across my field of vision, and in the middle of those stars, I see Dorian opening the turpentine, casting lines of the clear liquid over his portrait. The harsh smell fills the room, stinging my eyes.
“It’s done,” Dorian gasps. “Just go, Baz. Go! The key is in the boat. Take it and go back to the marina.”
“Yes, Baz, you can leave now.” Vane shoves me away, still brandishing the gun. “I’m going to stay and watch. Go. Get out.”
My first instinct is to sayFuck youand make some big speech of love to Dorian—but to hell with that, because I’ve thought of something better.
As I run out the open front door, I hear Dorian screaming—a dark, rasping sound of utter agony.
The turpentine is eating away at the portrait. Eating away athim.
I fling myself off the porch. Stagger across the grass to the spot where Dorian threw his gun. The weight of it sends a spear of lightning-sharp pain through my damaged wrist, but I bite back theshriek and clasp the grip in my left hand. I took a gun safety course in college once, with a guy I was dating. Went to the range with him a couple times. At least I know where the safety is and how to toggle it off.
No time for doubt or second thoughts. I have to do this.
Dorian’s cries of anguish rip through the night as I run back up the steps, onto the porch, into the front room—
Dorian is sprawled on the floor.
I don’t dare look at him. I focus on Vane, who is leaning over Dorian, gaping at whatever’s happening. I lift the gun with my left hand, use my right to help with the aim, and I fire into Vane’s body.
The bullet enters his side. He jerks, flailing. The gun flies from his hand and slams against the floor, going off with a deafeningbang.
I don’t want to shoot him again. But what if Vane recovers and keeps coming at me, like the bad guys in horror movies? I can’t risk it.
I squeeze the trigger again, horrified at how easy it is now that I’ve done it once. The second shot sinks in just above Vane’s hip. He half turns toward me.
My third shot hits him square in the chest.
His spirit vacates his body in that moment, his eyes blown suddenly wide, glassy, and vacant. He sinks, crumpling slowly to the floor, and my soul screams in silent horror.
I killed him. I killed him. He’s the second person I’ve killed—
I can’t think about it, I can’t, because Dorian, Dorian…
Dorian is wheezing, his eyes glazing over. His skin sizzles, and the edges of his features are beginning to blur, to melt, torun. He is slowly corroding as the effects of the turpentine degrade the portrait.
My vow snaps in two, broken with a thought.
I’m saving Dorian Gray. Iwillsave him. I have to try.
In one of my art classes, we did speed sketches. Bless Mrs. Radley for giving us so many of those assignments. I need that experience now.
I grab a pad of paper and a handful of pencils and pens, and I sit down beside Dorian.
Angrily I whisk the tears away from my eyes and grit my teeth against the pain in my wrist as I start sketching.
