Page 52 of Into Pitch

“I always mean it,” I lie.

She huffs something I can’t hear and slides out the door, closing it behind her. The bus around me feels like it’s caving in.

I slide down the counter until I’m sitting on the floor, my back against the cabinet and knees drawn to my chest. Fuck, what if what I’m doing with Alexander ends in the same way? What if he killed the guy Imogen had been dating at the clinic to keep him quiet and I’m just another fly in his web?

And I’m stupid enough to have slept with him not once, but twice now.

I press my fist to my mouth, to keep myself from screaming in frustration. I can’t do this. I can’t risk my own life just because some seriously fucked up part of me craves Alexander.

I blow out a breath and reach for my phone, texting Imogen.

Sadie: Kind of got swept up with your news,

but I wanted to tell you that the pro bono

program is over at the clinic for me.

Thank you so much for recommending me

and I’m glad it helped when it could.

Don’t stress about it, okay?

I hit send and squeeze my eyes shut. It’s just another secret to add to the pile, but it’s the only way I know how to end this before it gets worse. Before I end up a forgotten body in a ditch.

I brush paint over the canvas in front of me with a soft, stubborn whisper.

I’ve got the curtains half-drawn against the afternoon light, letting in enough glow to see what I’m doing without letting the world fully look back. Paint stains my fingers; black under my nails and a smear of crimson across my knuckle where I wiped without thinking. The canvas propped on the small table is… well, it’s something.

It’s not finished or even close to being so, but for the first time in days, I feel like my head has enough room to breathe.

This is my therapy now, I’ve determined. This is how I will keep myself from spinning out.

I mix a darker shade of red and apply it in rough strokes, building shadow where it doesn’t want to sit. The image taking shape is abstract enough that no one else would know what they’re looking at, but I do. I always do.

It’s a corridor with light and dark fractured into angles. A suggestion of a mask near the center if you look too long.

It’s the day I am supposed to be at my session with Alexander. And somehow I know that a storm is coming for me. I’ve built my life around that hour in the evening where I sit on a couch and tell a man things I’ve never told anyone.

A man who is also a monster.

I didn’t even bother to send him a message or cancel. I figure my absence would signal a pretty clean line in the sand and a boundary to be set. If any part of him gave a shit then he would respect it.

I sit down my brush and wipe my palm on my jeans, the plague charm swinging against my wrist as if it’s laughing at my choice. I’m busy scolding it mentally when a knock sounds off my door.

It’s probably Imogen for the umpteenth time checking in on me since I mentioned the therapy was over. The dead guy has her all up in arms, even if she can actively do nothing about it but stress herself out.

Sighing, I toss my brush into the can beside the canvas and pad over to the door, hurling it open to find that it is indeed not my best friend glaring up at me from the concrete below.

“Sadie.”

Yeah, I should have guessed his crazy ass would show up. Let’s be real honest—a part of me knew he would. He’s not the kind of man you ghost and expect to disappear.

I slam the door shut in his face and step back.

“Go away.” I try shouting through the door, but the words sound weak.

I clear my throat and try again, stronger. “Go the fuck away, Alex.”