by Sally John
Sheer emotion had carried her from the restaurant to the store to her apartment. It unloaded the food in the kitchen and pried off the paint can lid. It now pushed her to her knees, the paintbrush forgotten against her khakis.
Was it rage? Grief? Fear? She didn’t want to name it.
A great sob engulfed her.
“Oh, God! This creature is too beautiful. I don’t want to destroy her. I am so tired of destroying. I am so tired of running. So tired of being filled with rage and grief and fear. I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I am so sorry! Help me! Oh, please help me!”
She shuddered. It felt like an earthquake rumbled inside of her. It ripped open caverns, long sealed shut and filled with years and years’ worth of unshed tears and unspoken cries.
She pitched forward until her face rested against the floor, those tears and cries at last released.
“I quit! I quit! I quit!” She screamed the words, gasping for breath. “I want to do it Your way. I really do. I want what Nana always taught me. What Mom says. What Rosie says. Dear God, I want to know You like they do! Show me the black spots that Papa talks about, the black spots on my own heart.”
A sudden blackness filled her vision. Black on black, darker than anything she could imagine. Shapes formed. Like in a painting, she saw shadows and she knew what they were. They weren’t grief, rage, or fear. No, they went beyond, to a deeper level of darkness where no light could ever penetrate.
The shadows were hatred. Hatred of her father. Hatred of herself.
As she watched, long tendrils sprouted from them and grew. They coiled around something else, a fistlike shape that moved in a beating rhythm. The tendrils squeezed tightly and the beating slowed.
Lexi’s chest ached.
“Jesus, I’m sorry. Forgive me. Help me to forgive Max. My dad. Please. I don’t want to hate him.”
The fistlike shape took on color. It faded to a raw umber, lightened to burnt sienna. Alizarin crimson took over. The black tendrils snapped and shriveled.
And then they disappeared altogether.
The heart beat in a large up-and-down movement. Ka-boom. Ka-boom. Ka-boom. With each beat it brightened until it became a splash of pink against a backdrop of yellow.
Lexi didn’t stir from her bowed position. Eyes shut, she gazed at the image, lost in a sense of wonder and peace.
Tears flowed. It was as if all the junk she had bottled up inside herself liquefied and drained out through her tear ducts. After a time she felt emptied . . . except for a faint impression of something she guessed might be . . . maybe . . . could it be?
Yes, it could. Yes, it was.
Joy. Pure, sweet joy whispered in her heart.
“Pink?” She sat up, smiling. “Cobalt rose to be exact. And cadmium yellow lemon.”
A feeling of euphoria whooshed aside the soft whisper. It gushed through her. In its wake came a thought, never before formed in her life, bursting like a new star being born in her mind.
God sees me like I see Gigi. He made me. He adores me. He thinks I’m gorgeous. When I hate myself, I obliterate His work. How can I receive good things from Him if I’m obliterated? No way.
Lexi sat up and chuckled. “Lord, this is Sunday school stuff. I should know it already. Obviously I don’t, so I’m okay with it if You’re okay with it.”
Deep inside, from the center of that cobalt-rose beating heart, she believed He was totally okay with it.
Lexi surveyed the mess.
Sobbing with a paint-filled brush clutched in her hand was not a pretty thing. Black enamel smeared her khakis and ecru sweater and hands. It was probably on her face and in her hair. It was on the floor. At least it had hit the cheap rugs she used to protect the landlord’s carpet.
All of it could wait. First came Gigi. That plop of black in the bottom left-hand corner would never do. Her giraffe was going to be all about light and life and digital photo-sharp eyes.
Lexi went to work, a wide-mouthed jar of turpentine in one hand and a rag in the other, the windows open to air out the fumes. Again and again she dipped the rag into the jar and rubbed it across the glob, wishing she had used an oil-based paint. Unlike the enamel, it would have easily wiped clean.
The enamel did not forgive like oils.
Hm.
“All right, God. I get it.” She smiled, tickled at the conversation that had begun. Even if it was mostly a monologue, she knew He listened.
“As I was about to say, I’m like this enamel, right?” She scrubbed the rag against the canvas. “Not very forgiving. I keep things bottled up. Sticky and staining. Like ill feelings. I have a lot of ill feelings toward a lot of people.”
The doorbell rang.
She chuckled. “Like Eileen.”
Her neighbor was half-deaf and lived in the apartment next door. She was an amazing baker and excelled in the role of pest. Lexi usually ignored her bell ringing and Eileen would leave a plate of goodies on a tea tray in the hall for her.
It was probably time to mend that fence.
“Coming!” she called out, striding through the living room to the front door at the other end.
Rag still in her grimy hand, she twisted the dead bolt, moved to unlock the doorknob, and out of habit, paused. “Eileen?” She peered through the eyehole.
And saw part of a man’s shoulder.
“It’s Erik,” came the voice the other side of the door.
Erik! Slurred muffled voice, leaning against her door for support, charming his way into the building!
“Oh, Erik!” She unlocked the knob and yanked the door open. “You—”
Her voice died.
In a swift glance she took in the man, his height, his dark hair, his svelte figure that would have looked better in an Armani suit than the Windbreaker and blue jeans. His Dumbo ears that disrupted a perfect flow of tall, dark, and handsome.
He wasn’t Erik.
Sixty-One
Bobby swore through clenched teeth, flipped on the lights and siren, and slammed the gearshift into Reverse.
Normally Rosie took his testosterone-laden adrenaline rushes in stride. They had been through enough emergency situations together to build her confidence. She trusted his driving skills and his ability to make snap decisions.
But tonight was a different story.
Of course what made it different was the gnawing fact that the Beaumonts were her friends.
Not good. Not good at all.
She shouted above the siren’s scream, “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he yelled, his arm on the back of the seat, his face toward the rear of the squad car.
“You’re going backwards down the ramp against two lanes of oncoming traffic!”
“Sharp as ever—move it, bozo!” He bellowed as if the driver behind them could hear. “Move it!” He cursed again, not under his breath this time.
Conversation was wasted effort. She knew the freeway’s shoulder ahead was blocked due to construction. The glimpse she caught of brake lights signified there must be an accident in the distance. It would tie things up for a long while. They’d have to take side streets all the way to Lexi’s.
Rosie twisted around. Cars parted at a snail’s pace, allowing Bobby to maneuver down the ramp also at a snail’s pace. He was not a happy camper.
She radioed dispatch, explained the situation, asking for a unit nearer Lexi’s place to go there ASAP.
There were problems with the request.
It was a busy night for the police. The department was shorthanded. Was the woman even in an emergency situation?
Maybe not. The only verifiable info was that Reid Fletcher harassed her brother and knew where she lived.
Did Rosie?
She remembered the building address from when she’d driven Lexi there to pick up her car. The apartment number? Well, no, but she was at that moment searching databases on the squad car’s computer—
The dispatcher said she’d see what she could do.
<
br /> Rosie called Lexi’s mom. “Claire—”
“Rosie! What is going on?”
“What’s her apartment number?”
“Seven-C. Third floor. What—”
“Hold on.” She passed the information on to dispatch. “Claire, have you talked to her?”
“No, she’s not answering either of her phones. Her machine doesn’t pick up. Indio hasn’t seen her at the hacienda. Danny lives closest, but he’s camping, out of reach. I talked with her boss and Jenna and a couple friends. Nothing. Max is on his way to her apartment.”
Apartment! Duh. As in a building !
“Claire, what’s the security like there? Does she have an outside entrance?”
“No. You have to call from the front and get buzzed inside. I have a key, though, and gave it to Max.”
Rosie breathed more easily than she had in hours. Of course there were all sorts of ways to easily get inside such a building, the simplest being to walk in when someone walked out. But it could buy them some time.
“Claire, how soon will Max arrive?”
“Ten minutes, maybe? Depending on traffic.”
Always. At least he was approaching from a different direction than they were. Once they got out of the current jam, it should take them less time. Depending on—
“Rosie—”
“Don’t worry, Claire. I’ll be in touch.” She closed her phone, cutting Claire off in midprotest.
Sixty-Two
It was a nightmare.
Lexi could not speak.
She could not scream.
She could not move.
Time ceased to exist.
Before the first gasp had completed its heaving route through her lungs, the man was in her apartment, the door jerked out of her hand and shut.
He stood inches from her. “I can tell from the look on your face that you recognize me. That’s too bad. I had hoped you wouldn’t.”
A heightened awareness commanded her senses.
She heard the click of the door latch . . . the clunk of the lock . . . ragged breath . . . the whistle of his through his nostrils . . . the fall of soft rain from the open windows in the back of the apartment . . . the hum of freeway traffic . . . the rattle of the refrigerator motor . . . the tick of the wall clock . . . the rustle of his jacket fabric.
She smelled the black coffee on his breath . . . the rain on his jacket . . . the pungent fumes of turpentine mounting in the corner where they stood.
She felt the soft cotton of the sweater against her skin . . . the pull of hoops on her pierced earlobes . . . the oiliness on her fingers and the rag they held . . . the cramp of her left hand stretched around the old mayonnaise jar.
She saw the tic at the corner of his right eye . . . the chicken pox scar on his temple . . . the cerulean rim around an iris of powder blue . . . the day’s worth of blue-black stubble down his jaw . . . the full lips. An unnatural glint in overlarge black pupils.
“You have seen me, Lexi, haven’t you?” His voice resembled Erik’s, with silken tones fit for television.
Her heart pounded in her ears. She gasped for each breath, her vocal cords paralyzed from the effort.
“Cat got your tongue?” He smiled. “I don’t want to hurt you, Miss Beaumont. I just want to make sure the cat has always got your tongue when it comes to, shall we say, certain topics. I think you know what I’m referring to. What is that awful smell?”
Up close, he wasn’t as handsome as she had thought the night at the bar. As a matter of fact, he was nowhere near as good-looking as Erik. And a navy-blue Windbreaker? Not in a million years would Erik wear a navy-blue Windbreaker.
The man rubbed his nose and glanced at the jar. “Peuww. Turpentine. Oh, that’s right. You’re an artist. Well, well. Why don’t you invite me in to see your etchings?” He grinned. “And we’ll just chat for a bit. Once we get to know each other, I’m sure you’ll understand why it’s in your best interest to be quiet about a certain conversation you overheard.”
He touched her right arm, a gentle caress, just above the elbow. He smiled.
A creepy-crawly sensation wormed up her arm.
His fingers gripped, pinching.
“Jesus! Help me!” Sheer terror burst the name from her. Outrage quickly followed. Righteous indignation crackled through every bit of her five-foot-two inch frame.
The man turned her from the door and pulled her forward a step.
With all her might, Lexi snapped her left arm across her chest, up and over her shoulder, flinging the contents of the jar out and upwards. The flammable, colorless liquid—an irritant to mucus membranes—splashed directly into the man’s face, hitting his mouth, his nose, his eyes.
The guy had no business being in her home.
Sixty-Three
Max, it’s the gold one.” Claire faced the back wall of Tuyen’s room. She whispered and hunched her shoulders in an effort to hide the fact she was using a cell phone. Nurse Ratchet had already chewed her out once.
Max made a noise of exasperation. “They’re all gold!”
“The really gold one. The super shiny one shaped like a beret.”
She should have gone with him, but neither one of them had wanted to leave Tuyen alone. Although the nursing staff coddled their niece, and although she progressed physically, it was obvious she was not yet out of the woods emotionally.
Max was at Lexi’s building, outside the main entrance. She heard her ring of keys clink as he fiddled with them.
“Max, you tried calling her again, right?”
“Yeah. Oh, good. Here comes a couple. I’ll just go inside with them. Excuse me! Hold on, Claire.”
He must have left the phone near his mouth. She could hear his side of the conversation. “What do you mean? Huh?” Pause. “But my daughter lives here. Seven-C. I just can’t figure out which key—wait! You gotta be kidding me!”
“Max?”
“Unbelievable! They wouldn’t let me go in with them. Said it’s against the rules. Good grief, Claire, what are all these keys for?”
She ignored the rhetorical question and waited through a few moments of him huffing and puffing.
“Okay. Okay. This one fits. Got it. Yes, it turns! I’m in! Okay. Heading to the steps. Which one is her door key?”
Claire kneaded her forehead. “It has a dot of orchid nail polish on it.”
“Orchid. That’s purple, right? Ah, got it. Second-floor landing. Tuyen still asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’m on the third.”
“Max?”
No answer.
“Max!”
“—noises. Call you back.”
The line went dead.
Sixty-Four
Abellow exploded from the man and reverberated through the apartment. He let go of Lexi and clawed at his face. Losing his balance, he stumbled against the wall, blocking the door.
She dropped the jar and rag and sprinted for the kitchen, for the back entrance that led to a fire escape.
A heavy hand grabbed her shoulder. She fell against the sink and screamed, a small sound lost in the roar of his wordless, unending shrieks.
He let go of her again and crashed to the floor, whacking his arms against his head as if he wanted to tear it off. His legs flailed about, knocking over a chair and pushing the table askew.
Lexi couldn’t get by him. She boosted herself up onto the countertop and scrambled along it. At the stove top, beyond the reach of his writhing legs, she hopped down. The teakettle clattered to the floor.
He screamed obscenities. “Help me! I can’t see! I can’t see!”
She bounded through the kitchen doorway back into the living room.
The man wailed an unearthly howl, the sound of an animal dying in the wilderness.
As she neared the front door, it burst open.
And Max rushed through it.
Max. Her dad.
“Daddy!”
“Lexi!” Her dad’s arms tightened aro
und her. “Are you hurt?”
Clinging to him, sobbing hysterically, she pushed until they moved through the doorway and out into the hall.
“Honey, are you hurt anywhere?”
She shook her head fiercely against his chest.
The man’s howls were unbearable.
“Should I go in there?”
“Nooo!” Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! The words screamed in her mind.
“I’m calling 911.”
As he used his cell phone, she turned slightly and peered over her shoulder. They still stood near her open front door. She could see across the living room and into the kitchen. She could see the man thrashing about.
“What do you mean they’re already here?” Her dad held her with one arm, his eyes watching the interior of the apartment. “I don’t see any cops—what? Yes. Yes. Send an ambulance.”
Lexi thought of how she and her mom had searched high and low for just the right building. Moving from her parents’ house had been a major deal. While her friends went off to college and then into their own homes, she was content to stay put. Work, paint, socialize some, garden at the hacienda. For the most part, her daily life had not intersected with her mom or dad.
In time, though, she craved her own space, one where she could create a studio not attached to the garage. It took months to locate exactly what she wanted. Being near Danny was important, though she could not afford his beach-district rent. A spare bedroom with at least two windows for her studio was a nonnegotiable. And good security. No outside entrance directly to the apartment. At least three floors up.
She settled for a boxlike structure. The landscaping left much to be desired. The tiny balcony off the kitchen confined. But the apartment’s cocoon environment worked for her. She felt secure.
Now, in the blink of an eye, that had been shattered.
She shut her eyes and tightened her grip around her dad. He caressed her cheek, murmuring words she could not decipher. His tone soothed. Her sobs began to subside.
Footfalls thumped nearby. “Oh, thank God!”
“Rosie!” her dad said.
Lexi looked up and saw Bobby rush past, into the apartment. Rosie touched her shoulder and followed him inside. She immediately came back to them.