by Amy Murray
This one thing could’ve saved James’s life, and the anguish of that realization tore my heart in half. Why had he hidden it with me? I wanted to throw it and watch it break into a thousand pieces. Instead, the shriek that erupted scarred my throat and burned my lungs. I laid my head against his blood-soaked chest and curled into his side, where I sobbed until there weren’t tears left to cry.
With a gasp, I opened my eyes. James was holding me tight, my face pressed to his chest. I sat up and checked my hands and then his body for blood. James searched my face and brushed my tangled hair from my eyes. “Are you okay?”
Heavy breaths poured from my lungs as I pressed my hand against his heart. The beat was strong, and feeling it calmed the fright still lurking. “Fine. I think.”
Mack was standing over the man he’d shot, talking into his phone. “Get Alistair here now,” he barked before hanging up.
“Mack.” My voice was raspy and raw. “What’re you doing here?”
He looked at me a second before his phone rang.
“Saving the day. What else?” But the humor of his words wasn’t mirrored in his voice. He lifted his phone to his ear. “McCormack,” he said before turning his back on me.
I didn’t remember much after that. Mack had questions, but mostly for James. They spoke quickly and in angry tones. I threw up at some point, but all the other details were fuzzy.
James helped me into his truck, but how we got from there to here, wherever here was, escaped me. I was holding a drink, something warm, and James was pacing the length of a strange living room. He reminded me of a caged lion, tense and lethal, but it didn’t scare me, even though it probably should’ve. I’d seen the violence that lived within him. Gracie had been right. He did have another side.
“Where are we?” I asked.
James stopped pacing and turned to me. “My place.”
I looked around for the first time. James’s home was small and old, yet remarkably clean. The only light came from a single lamp that lit the room with a dim yellow glow.
“It’s not much—” He broke off and gestured to the room. I followed the path of his hand and saw the crack that ran up one wall. The ceiling dipped above me, and the wood floors sloped to the right.
The crumbling house fit him. “It’s fine. It’s perfect, actually.” I wrapped my hands tightly around the hot mug. “What happened out there?”
He took a ragged breath. “I don’t know. Not really.”
“Why didn’t we talk to the police? Why aren’t we being interviewed now?” I felt the furious rise of panic as it clamped my ribs together.
“McCormack’s taking care of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s with the FBI.” My jaw dropped, and his head pulled back in question. “You didn’t know?”
I stared down at my cup and reached for every memory I had where Mack talked about his job. “He never mentioned it. He said he worked in security.” My thoughts were spinning, and I took a sip of whatever was in my mug.
“Hot chocolate?” I asked.
“It was that or tequila.”
I clenched my teeth, and my jaw ached under the strain. “I think I’d like tequila.”
He shuffled into the kitchen and came back with a bottle and two small glasses. He set the them on the scuffed coffee table and poured, and after sliding one in my direction, he picked up the other. I was pretty sure shooting tequila would be a horrible idea—I hated tequila on a good day—but my hands wouldn’t stop trembling, and I couldn’t stop seeing James’s eyes, dead and vacant, like the man Mack had shot. I wanted to forget everything that’d happened tonight, and tequila seemed like a good place to start.
I grabbed the glass and swallowed the contents as fast as I could. When my empty glass clinked against the table, James refilled it and poured a second for himself. Together, we drank, and I coughed at the burn. James didn’t say anything, and when I recovered, he topped them off again.
“That man, tonight, had a picture of one of your paintings,” I said.
He nodded as he pulled the paper from his pocket and held it out to me. I took it and traced my portrait with my finger.
“He seemed to think that necklace was real.”
I shivered, not wanting to think about where else I’d seen that necklace, but once the idea had come, I couldn’t brush it away. This wasn’t a sickness. What I was seeing was real somehow, someway.
“I’ll be right back.” James moved silently from the living room and disappeared down a hallway. He came back a minute later with a sketchpad in hand.
“Flip to the end,” he said, handing me the book.
I turned the heavy pages one by one, looking at the drawings, each one better than the next. They were a series detailing the construction of an elaborate necklace. One that contained a light yellow center stone, slightly pear-shaped but wider. At the top of the stone were intricate rows of white diamonds.
I flipped to the last page and took in a breath that stalled in my throat. Something sour rose in my stomach, and I had the sudden urge to gag. On the paper was a sketch of a hand, and dangling from the fingertips—my fingertips—was the necklace. The only difference between this sketch and the vision I’d had tonight was the absence of dripping blood.
“I need some air,” I said, pushing the notebook aside and walking toward the back door. I yanked at the handle, but it caught in the frame and wouldn’t budge. James came behind me and pushed the door closed. With practiced ease, he turned the knob and simultaneously lifted up. When it creaked open, I pushed myself outside, taking in deep breaths of the freezing outdoor air. James stood next to me, calm and quiet while everything inside me spun out of control.
“How have you seen that necklace?” I asked him, my voice rising in pitch with each word. I clenched my hands at my sides.
“You know how,” he said, moving to stand in front of me.
“No, I don’t.”
“It just came to me. The same way your image came to me. I don’t know how I thought of it—it just was.”
I couldn’t stand still. Wringing my hands with anxious energy, I paced the yard until I reached a lopsided swing set standing in what was left of the grass. I sat on the flat wooden swing and grabbed the rusted chains.
“Abby, you’ve got to talk to me.” James sat on his heels in front of me. “You’ve seen the painting. Why did that sketch upset you so much just now?”
I shook my head. “I can’t.”
“Jesus, this isn’t seventh grade. I’m not going to be scared away. You’ve seen what I can do. Tell me.”
I thought of my mother and the way I ignored her ramblings like they meant nothing. If hers were anything like mine then they probably meant a great deal. James scrubbed his face and with a frustrated sigh, pushed his hands through his hair.
“I have visions—or dreams,” I said. His movements stilled, but he didn’t turn toward me. “I see things that may or may not have happened. Well, not really see them, it’s more like I’m living them, or re-living them.” My voice faded to a barely audible whisper. “It sounds ridiculous. I don’t understand what’s happening to me.”
He blew out a breath and nodded. “And that’s where you’ve seen the necklace? In these visions?”
“I saw it tonight after Mack…” I swallowed, my throat tight and swollen.
“It’s okay,” he said, placing a gentle hand on my knee. “What else have you seen?”
I thought of him lying on the ground, bleeding a slow death. I thought of how broken I was, so full of fear and panic and sadness.
“Have you seen me?” he asked. His voice was soft like he already knew the answer.
I nodded not trusting my voice. James let out a heavy breath, and he looked away.
“I had my first vision the night we met at the bar. Flashes come and go, but when we’re together, I see them more frequently. They’re more vivid.”
He stood and pulled me to my feet. His thumbs lightly tra
ced my palms before his hands ran up my arms to twist in the hair at my neck. Every touch made me ache, and each second he didn’t kiss me felt like dying. I wanted him, needed him, in a way I never had before.
I ran my hands up his chest, and his muscles jumped as my fingers climbed. I dragged my hands over his shoulders and down the length of his tightly muscled arms until I touched the smooth but wrinkled skin of his hands. I pulled them away from my face and watched as our fingers entwined. His knuckles were raw and bloody, and the expression he wore was just as fierce.
He leaned close, and I closed my eyes. My entire body, lit with anticipation, exploded into flames when his lips pressed against mine. His hands ran down my back, and I melted into him. This moment was like nothing I’d ever experienced, it was just a kiss, but somehow it was more than that. It was like coming home.
He trailed his lips across my cheek before he pulled away, and I dropped my head against his chest, listening to his heart beat wild and strong.
“Come on,” he said as he turned us back toward the house. “There’s something I need to show you.”
Chapter Six
James led me back through the living room and down the small hallway, where there were three doors, all of them closed. We walked to the one farthest from the living room, and with a gentle push, he opened it.
The room was dark, and the air inside smelled like my middle school art room, a mix of paint and pencil shavings. When James flipped on the overhead light, my eyes widened and my heart skittered. I turned a slow circle and reminded myself to breathe.
There were four easels and mountains of sketch pads. Tables were cluttered with jars of brushes, tubes of paint, and stained cups of colored water. There were colored pencils and charcoal sticks. Sketches were taped to the walls in clusters, and canvases of various size were stacked in groups along the wall. But it wasn’t the organized disarray of the room that held my attention. It was the art itself.
“This is unbelievable,” I breathed. “You did this?”
James nodded once, and I moved to the farthest wall to examine a stack of paintings leaning against it. They were of the ocean and overcast skies, frothy tops of cresting waves, endless stars over roaring waters, and gulls perched on lonely piers. All of them held a quality that spoke to me—resonated within me.
“These are beautiful.” I ran my fingers over one of the larger paintings, mesmerized by the texture and the precision of skill. Next to me was an easel covered with a canvas cloth. I lifted the corner and turned to James. “May I?” I asked.
He didn’t protest, and I pulled the fabric up to show the painting underneath.
It was a painting of me. My hair was curled in brushed waves, exactly like the portraits in the gallery and reminiscent of a Gatsby-era style. James gestured to a pile of canvases on the table next to me. I flipped through them carefully and realized they were all of me. It was surreal, like stepping into a dream—my dream—but from an outsider’s perspective.
“You’re not saying anything.” He looked at me through guarded eyes before glancing around the room.
“I’m processing.”
“That bad?” he asked.
I huffed, and the corner of my mouth lifted in a smile. “I told you I have visions of you. I don’t think a bunch of paintings is crazier than that.”
I picked up a sketch pad and flipped through the pages. Each drawing was nearly the same, with only slight differences. James came to stand next to me and took the book from my hands. He lifted all the pages at once and let them fall one by one. It was like watching an old movie, one of those silent films, except the star wasn’t Clara Bow, it was me. I was standing on the beach wearing an ankle length dress and a hat with a wide brim. With every flip of the page, an invisible breeze lifted the hat up and away from my head until it was captured by the wind and taken out to sea.
“Do it again,” I said with a smile. James flipped the pages, and when he finished, he handed the book to me. I cradled it against my chest. “Do you ever paint anything that’s not the ocean…or me?”
“Not really.” He crossed his arms and lifted his shoulders. “Before you, it was always the ocean. This last year, it’s only been you.” He shifted on his feet.
I had so many questions, but I settled on the first and most basic. “How do you do it?”
“I’ve never really thought about it before. But I don’t have visions, if that’s what you mean. I see you with my…” He held up his hands and then dropped them again to his sides. “Hands, I guess. When I hold a brush or a pencil, the image appears, and it consumes me.” He stood in front of my portrait. “It’s like you take hold and won’t let go until I’ve gotten the drawing out.”
He looked back at me. There was a shift in his eyes, something possessive or predatory. Either way, my body responded. Everything from my heartbeat to my breathing picked up in speed, and tiny pinpricks of awareness raised gooseflesh on my arms.
With slow and measured steps, James walked toward me.
“Some call that an obsession,” I said. He took three more steps.
“Maybe it is, but I’ve always thought there was more to it than that. Like there was a reason for it, and if I kept drawing, that reason would become clear.”
“Has it?”
One more step. “I think so.”
We were toe to toe, and my neck was craned back so I could better see him. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”
He searched my eyes, and small snaps of electricity sparked across my skin in anticipation. “To find you.”
James reached for me, and I collapsed into him, needing him as much as he needed me.
“Tell me now if this is too much, because after tonight—after everything that’s happened—I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let you go.”
“Is it crazy that I don’t want you to?”
He smiled against the top of my head. “No. That’s probably the least crazy thing I’ve heard all week.”
A tingle raced through my veins, and he kissed me until I was breathless.
Sweat made my clothes sticky and tight. I was hot—the boiling kind of hot that pressed on my chest until I was gasping for air. I struggled against my bindings and panic rose like a beast inside my chest. My attacker’s slim arm tightened around my ribs. The pungent smell of aggressive sweat clung to his skin, and my stomach turned with disgust. I kicked and flailed in a fight to get free, but I was stuck.
“Abby, it’s okay.” I heard James’s voice and the bindings lifted. Drawing an unrestricted breath of relief, I opened my eyes. “The blanket was wrapped around you.”
“Sorry. Bad dream.” I rolled my neck, stiff from sleeping on the sofa, and wiped my sweat-soaked hair from my face.
James was fresh from a shower, which made me aware of how grimy I was. “Your phone’s been buzzing all morning. I didn’t want to wake you.”
I grabbed my bag from the floor and pulled out my cell. There were over twenty missed calls and too many texts to count. I opened my messages and cringed. They were all from Gracie, and they varied in tone. Some were impatient, others were angry, and more were frantic. I needed to see her.
“It’s Gracie. I should probably get home. I know she’s worried.”
James ran a hand over the scruff on his face and nodded. “I’ll take you.”
We had to stop by the gallery to pick up my car, and even though I could drive myself, James insisted he follow me home. The sun was breaking over the trees when we arrived at my apartment. The air had warmed, and the ice that had coated the city yesterday was gone.
“Are you going to be alright in there?” James asked as we stood outside my door.
“Gracie’s going to be out of her mind, but she’ll be fine once she realizes I’m alive and well.”
“Not about Gracie. I mean, are you going to be okay in there after everything that happened last night?”
In my mind I saw the dead man’s face, and his body falling limp like his bones had
dissolved inside his skin. My stomach soured, and I shook myself. “No, I don’t think so.” I shrugged. “Not for a while, anyway.”
He reached for me, and I folded myself into him. “Do you want me to stay?” he asked as his head dropped against the top of mine.
I closed my eyes and breathed him in, finding comfort in his arms. “No, I need to face her alone. She’s going to be angry. You don’t want to witness that. I’m not sure I do.”
I leaned back, ready for his kiss, when the door across the hall opened and James was jerked from my embrace.
“Mack,” I said, but he didn’t answer.
“What part of ‘take her home’ did you not understand?” he yelled, pinning James against the wall. Mack was livid. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were manic.
James shoved Mack away with both hands. “Don’t you ever put your hands on me.”
Fury, thick and palpable, raged between them. Mack cracked his knuckles. “Where were you?”
James ground his teeth together. “I took her to my place.”
“That’s funny, because your last known address is now occupied by a couple of newlyweds. I drove half the damned city trying to find you. Even went to that shit-hole in the country.”
James’s onyx eyes hardened and, if possible, darkened. “I moved. Didn’t know I needed your permission.”
Mack stepped aggressively toward James.
“Stop it,” I said, stepping between them. I extended my arms and pushed them apart. On contact, my insides jumped, and what started as a tingling in my fingers quickly progressed to a rush that crashed against me like a breaking ocean wave. Pulling my arms into my chest, I fisted my hands. I knew what was coming. I just wished it wouldn’t.
I needed to get help, but every time I pulled away from James, I fell back to his side. I pressed my face into his neck and cried. His blood had stopped running, and his skin had turned cold. James wasn’t coming back, and knowing that made my heart a brittle, cracking thing.
“Miss?” a man’s tentative voice asked.