Lucia nodded. Jules inclined her head as well.
Skye muttered something below her breath, but Francesca’s gaze sliced toward her, cold enough to still her tongue.
“Good,” Francesca said. “Then let’s focus.”
By the time they were done, Lucia’s nerves were going haywire. Yes, she wanted to help Francesca, but the plan seemed to hinge on so many variables goingjustright. Never mind that no one seemed to seriously consider that this could be a trap.
She returned home and, instead of heading inside, cut straight toward the studio. The sun hung low, casting longstripes of light across the path. Pebbles shifted beneath her boots with each step, the faint scrape louder than it should have been in the quiet.
At the door, she paused, drew a deep breath, and stepped inside. The familiar scents of paint and linseed oil wrapped around her—the flecks of color on the floor, the half-used tubes and jars filled with brushes, the stacks of canvases along the walls, waiting for her to pour this tightness onto them.
Lucia needed out.
Not for Penelope, though it would help there, too; she didn’t think Penelope would be too keen on a relationship with an art forger. Criminal. Whatever.
She wanted to see what else was out there and where she could take her art. Lucia had enough savings to keep her afloat for a while, free from worrying about a regular job just yet, but where would she even start?
It was easy to want out. Even quitting didn’t seem terribly hard, especially since Francesca wouldn’t make it difficult. But the problem?
Lucia worried she might not know what to do with so much freedom. Without the structured scaffolding that had been her life for the last two decades, she might collapse. Could she even make it away from the Collective?
Lucia gritted her teeth and snatched up a blank canvas to put it on an easel. Painting usually eased her worries or at least allowed her to forget about them for a while.
Instead of forcing form, Lucia just let her brushes glide over the canvas, dipping into scarlet and indigo, adding specks of verdant green until it all became a blur of colors—freedom daubed onto the white background.
When she took a few steps back later, her breath caught. Her chest felt tight—like something had landed there and refused to move. She wouldn’t want to show this piece to her psychologistif she had one—which, come to think of, wouldn’t be the worst of ideas.
Her idea of freedom, her longing, still lived in a cage. Was she the bird that didn’t fly away when the door opened?
God, since when was she so melodramatic? But the hard lines and angular boundaries in something she thought would be lighthearted and free—the way the colors blended into shadows… No. She wasn’t there yet, not in her heart, it seemed. Her shoulders drooped.
“Fucking hell,” she muttered and wiped her hands before exiting the bungalow for home.
~ ~ ~
The next morning, she texted Penelope.
How are you?
Good. How about you?Came the immediate reply, and with it, a smile curved Lucia’s lips. She really shouldn’t have missed Penelope already.
Doing all right. I told them about what you said.
And?
We’re adjusting the plan. Thanks again for the heads-up.
Please be careful.
I always am.
She stroked her thumb over Penelope’s last message and sighed.Be careful. No one but Francesca had ever said that to her, and it left her almost breathless.
After wolfing down a quick breakfast and completing the checklist Francesca had sent her late last night (confirming equipment drop-off times, double-checking route maps, and running a silent alarm test on the burner phone Jules had configured), she headed back to her studio to take another stab at the painting she’d created yesterday.
She’d just set up and dipped the bristles into purple paint when a sharp knock on her front door almost made her drop the brush.
“Damn it.” She strode to the door and stopped short as she pulled it open.
