To Whatever End

by Frydman, Lindsey

  “No way,” she says. “Besides, you’re as good as any of those so-called professionals.”

  After a couple minutes, the conversation reverts back to the topic of Jack. Olivia mentions something about Christmas and presents, and I laugh.

  “It’s only June.”

  “Yeah, but I like imagining all the options. Us still being together in a few months is an option.”

  I smile at the ceiling.

  We end our phone call and I go back to my laptop. With a sigh, I bring the photos back up. There might be a portfolio-worthy scholarship in here somewhere, I just need to ditch my nerves.

  I stop on the photo with the dark blur. But no, wait…it’s not the one I’d spent nearly an hour staring at already. I lean closer, blinking at the image.

  While I stare, I list off the other things it could be a shadow of. A chair. A statue. Some sort of tree. But there’s no mistaking it for what it really is. Pinpricks of ice trail down my spine.

  It’s a shadow. A person’s shadow.

  Chapter Eight

  I stare at my tuna sandwich, shifting it around my plate with a finger. Usually I’d have eaten half of this thing in one bite. Grandma Ruth makes the best tuna salad. Really, she simply makes the best food, period. It’s a wonder I’m not hugely overweight.

  But my appetite hasn’t been great lately. It’s been two days since the playground adventure with Griffin. I’ve been doing small experiments at the grocery store and at work, but I’m still unable to change anything I see. And staring at the creepy shadow image does nothing to help.

  After lunch, I pick up my phone and contemplate texting Griffin. It seems odd to text him when he’s only a few yards from my front door. Considering he hasn’t texted me yet, he must not be the texting type.

  There I go again, making assumptions and jumping to conclusions.

  Giving myself a quick peek in the bathroom mirror, I make sure my leftover curls from yesterday don’t look chaotic and that the subtle makeup I put on earlier hasn’t smudged. I apply some Chapstick for good measure and check my teeth. Once I’m satisfied that I look presentable, I head for the front door.

  I knock on Griffin’s matching door, then wipe my hands against my jeans while I wait. An entire minute passes, so I knock again. Maybe I’ll have to resort to texting him after all. Of course he doesn’t spend every waking moment at his apartment.

  I’m about to turn away when I hear shuffling behind the door. Then it swings open, Griffin’s head poking out. His hair is extra messy today, and I don’t think it’s intentional. There’s an unnatural paleness to his skin and faint circles beneath his eyes.

  “Oh, hey,” he says, opening the door farther.

  I get a full-on shot of him shirtless, wearing only low-hanging jeans. And holy shit, I was not expecting that. His muscles are on full display. It’s no perfect six-pack, but who needs that when you’ve got muscles everywhere? More than the shirtless-ness, I was not expecting to see the tattoos. One of them is huge, along his right side, most of it hidden from sight by his muscular arm. God. I don’t think a guy is allowed to be this hot. It doesn’t seem fair. But then, maybe this is the universe’s way of repaying me for my stupid curse.

  Griffin makes a soft noise, his gaze casting down as if he just now realized he’s shirtless. But all he does is cross his arms and tip his gorgeous face to the side.

  “Hey.” I try out a smile. “What’s up?” Because that’s a perfect opener.

  He shakes his head, looking at me.

  It’s now that I see what’s missing. He’s not donning his signature smirk. In fact, his eyes are hard, and he looks more than just tired. He looks…pissed.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. That would have been a better opener. But I’d been too distracted by his hotness—and really, Quinn? That’s not okay. I am not that girl. And this guy might one day tell me he loves me, but that’s impossible. Real love isn’t in my cards.

  He lowers his arms, and I don’t pay any attention to the half-sleeve tat on his left arm. No more distractions. Then he steps back, ushering me in with one hand, opening the door fully.

  My heart is shouting in my chest, and the blood between my ears screeches at me. I swallow, try to keep my face neutral, and step inside.

  I see his guitar. Smashed into pieces.

  Fragments of the once beautiful golden instrument lie scattered across the carpet of his living room. Blades of fractured wood lie everywhere, like blood splatter, creating a twisted piece of art.

  “What…happened?” I ask, wondering how the hell anyone could smash a guitar into that many pieces. I didn’t think guitars even had that many pieces to break into.

  He groans, raking both hands down the sides of his face, and in this moment, he looks haunted beyond an emotion I can name. And it truly doesn’t matter that he’s shirtless anymore. “I came home today from a trip to the grocery store and…I found this.”

  I blink at the fractured pieces, then at him. “Did you just get home?”

  “No. About two hours ago.”

  “Did you call the police?” I twist toward him, dare a step forward.

  His lips tip downward, and you’d think I asked him to jump into a disgusting dumpster. “They can’t help.”

  “How could you know that? Someone broke into your house. What else did they destroy? Did they take anything?”

  Griffin lowers his hands slowly, staring at me with fire in his eyes and sadness pulling at his forehead. “Nothing is missing. Nothing else was touched, as far as I can tell. Just this.” One hand motions to what used to be his guitar. “This is the only thing that…” His fingers clench into fists, the veins in his neck pulse, and I’m fairly certain he wants to hit something. I wonder if he already has.

  “Why would someone do this?” It’s a question mostly to myself, but he responds anyway.

  “Fuck if I know. That guitar. It’s the only fucking thing I own that means a damn thing to me, and someone came in and smashed it to goddamned smithereens.” His voice rises, tense and hurt and mystified.

  I wrap my arms around myself, chewing on my lip as I consider. “Why won’t you call the police?”

  He doesn’t look at me. “I told you. They can’t help. There’s no sign of forced entry. My door was still locked when I got home. It’s not like the cops are going to care or be able to do anything about it.”

  His door was locked? “And I’m guessing no one else has your key, right?”

  Griffin shakes his head. “No. But I left my bedroom window open. All the windows, actually. I checked them all. The screens are still there—or were at least put back. It’s the only way someone could’ve been able to get in and out without breaking down the door. God dammit.” He steps over to the couch, careful not to crunch any of the pieces, and flops onto the tan loveseat.

  My insides are twisting with a sick, nauseating feeling. My heart is responding in kind. I feel lightheaded and dizzy and my veins tingle with anxiety.

  This is it. The beginning.

  It took me five minutes to realize it, but this can mean only one thing. Whoever is going to end up killing Griffin is the same person who broke into his house. It’s the only logical explanation. But why? Why smash only his guitar? Someone might know him well enough to understand how much that guitar means to him. Even so…what does that accomplish? Maybe this is how would-be murderers start—by doing small things to slowly torture their victims. My mind whirls with possibilities. There aren’t enough clues to get any sense of who, what, or why.

  I back up, pressing one palm firmly against the plain white wall as lightheadedness overwhelms me. Shutting my eyes, I inhale, fighting off a vicious wave of nausea. This is it.

  Now that it’s begun, I’m sure it’s only a matter of days or weeks, or if we’re lucky, a few months. Right? As soon as Griffin cuts his hair and he looks like he did in
my vision… When it’s pounding rain, and the air is thick with humidity. Not that this incident gives me a solid timeline.

  Opening my eyes, I take another solid breath and look at him. A choking sensation claws up my throat, and I do my best to keep my freak-out under wraps. He can’t see me fall apart without an explanation as to why.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. It’s weak, but I have nothing else to offer, and I can’t tell him the other stuff whipping around in my brain.

  He looks up at me. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Yeah, but… that doesn’t make me less sorry.” I lower my hand, take one step toward him, thinking about sitting on the couch next to him, but I don’t. “Do you want some help cleaning up?”

  Griffin shakes his head, his amber gaze still locked onto mine. He inhales deeply, and I’m drawn to the way his chest rises and falls violently. “No. I don’t want to deal with it right now.”

  “I’m…” But my words fall short. He’s beyond pissed, and even though his anger isn’t directed at me, I feel it pulsing through the room like a living, breathing entity. And I want to do something more than stand here.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  I frown, dropping my hands, letting them splay against my jeans.

  “I need to get out of here for a bit. I can’t fucking look at this mess anymore. It’s pissing me off. So, do you want to go get food with me? Or something? I don’t even think I’m hungry, but I need to leave.”

  And he wants me to come with him? My heart churns with a mix of additional emotions. I rub my sticky palms together. Breathe in slowly. Breathe out slower. Okay, I’m on emotion overload right now. It’s derailing my logic.

  “Sure,” I say slowly. “I mean, I’m not really hungry, either, but we can go somewhere.” I shove my hair behind my ears and try to wipe the emotions from my expression. The lightheadedness is nearly gone. “Wherever you want.”

  He nods and stands. “Let me find a shirt.”

  “Uh, yeah.” But on second thought, I like seeing him without one. He disappears down the short hallway, and I watch his back muscles flex as he moves.

  When he returns, he’s wearing a light-green shirt that pairs well with his golden-amber eyes—those eyes that still look like they could shoot daggers anytime he wanted. Griffin opens the front door, motioning for me to go out first. I do, and when we step onto the front porch, he locks up.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “Why are you apologizing to me?”

  He shakes his head, rolls his neck. “Because you had to witness the tail end of my meltdown.”

  “I don’t think that was a meltdown. Trust me. I’ve seen worse.” Plus, I’m still fighting off my own meltdown.

  A small smile appears on his face, and he takes another deep breath. “I think I stared at all those pieces on the floor for fifteen minutes before I would accept that it was real, that I wasn’t dreaming.”

  “I wish there was something I could do,” I say. Another weak sentiment. Is there anything I can do? Maybe. But not now.

  Griffin’s smile grows a little wider, though anger still resides in his eyes. He reaches out his arm until he’s touching my shoulder. His fingers leave warmth against my bare skin as he gently caresses it with his callused pads. I’m still trying to figure out what his touch means—if anything at all—when he speaks.

  “You want to go to one of those hipster-wannabe cafés where they play terrible music?” His laugh is weak, but it’s better than the cold, unsmiling version of Griffin I can’t understand. His fingers race down my arm until he pulls them away.

  A shiver runs through my body. I lick my lips, shrug, play it off like his touch means nothing to me. “I’d rather go to Tim Hortons and grab coffee and Timbits.”

  “Timbits?” he says.

  “Doughnut holes. Sorry. We call them Timbits here.”

  “Doughnut holes, or Timbits, or whatever you want to call them sound perfect. Let’s go.”

  He wanted out of his apartment for a break from reality. I’m highly aware of how that feels. I could use a mental break, too, for my own sanity. But I can’t afford one. Not when I need to find a way of convincing Griffin he’s in serious danger—without telling him the truth.

  Chapter Nine

  We’re seated at a small table inside the closest Tim Horton’s. We both got coffee and he bought a box of multi-flavored Timbits. His coffee is a large, but I went with the small. I love coffee as much as the next person, but I’m not sure my body needs that much caffeine to add to my adrenaline.

  Griffin pops a sugary Timbit into his mouth and leans back in the red-and-black chair, looking out the large window.

  I wrap my hand around the coffee cup, licking my lips and thinking about too many things. The conversation on the way here was minimal. Guess I’m at a lack of things to talk about other than what happened in his apartment. But on the plus side, my heart rate is almost back to normal.

  He finishes chewing and he’s still watching through the window when he says, “That guitar was a gift from my mom. On my sixteenth birthday.”

  I take a sip of coffee because I need something to do with my hands. Then I set it back down and lean forward a little.

  Before I can come up with something decent to say, Griffin continues. “She passed away before I turned eighteen. Brain tumor. It was…” His gaze flits to me, down, then back up somewhere past my shoulder. “Hard. It was hard to deal with. For me. For my dad. But that guitar…it meant something to me. My mom was the only one who liked the fact that I played music. My dad wasn’t against it, but he didn’t really give a shit. Lawyers are generally interested in only two things—logic and facts. Creativity is not something they give many fucks about.”

  “I think you might be assuming there. Didn’t we agree to no assumptions?”

  Half a smile graces his face. “I thought that agreement pertained only to you and me.”

  You and me.

  God, I need a new brain. Maybe a new heart while I’m at it. Vision or not, I don’t believe in that little thing called love. Despite my attraction to Griffin and his charms, I remain unconvinced. Lots of people say those three words and don’t mean them.

  “Well, sure. But I don’t think it’s fair to lawyers all around the world to say they’re so small-minded.” I shrug, glad he’s smiling again, and bonus: he doesn’t look like he wants to hit something anymore.

  “Maybe. But anyway, my dad was definitely that kind of lawyer. Still is.”

  I hesitate for a moment before asking, “Do you still talk to him?”

  He shakes his head, looking down at the box of Timbits, but makes no move to grab another.

  “I am really sorry about your guitar,” I say. “Even if it’s not my fault, I can still be sorry. I can imagine how losing something like that would be…terrible.”

  I think about my own parents, though there’s nothing treasured that either of them gave me. Nothing solid and concrete like a guitar. My parents loved me, and sure, they gave me things, but none had super-special meaning. At least not by the time they died. So it’s them that I miss. It’s them I regret losing.

  “I didn’t just lose it, though.” There’s a hint of anger in his voice as he returns his gaze to my face. “It was stolen from me. It was—” He sighs. “I’m so pissed.”

  I know he’s upset, but I don’t know how to fix it, no matter how desperately I want to.

  “You don’t know anyone who might’ve done that?” I ask softly.

  He shakes his head, sending locks of hair flopping across his forehead. “I don’t know anyone in Ohio. Aside from you. So unless you did it…” Like a switch, the anger is gone, and that half smile is back again.

  Good thing I can keep up with him. “I certainly didn’t. I’d have smashed all your stuff. Oh, and stolen all your shirts.” And his cologne
.

  He laughs. The sound tickles my heart and sends a rush of fluttery feelings through my stomach. Griffin is an interesting person to figure out. And aside from the awfulness hidden in our future, it’s actually nice—this figuring him out thing. Spending time with him so far has been fun. And thrilling. Scary. And weird. So many odd things wrapped together in this twisted, effed-up gift.

  A gift with a time limit.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  “It was probably one of our neighbors,” Griffin says, picking up a powdered Timbit. “Someone who didn’t like listening to me play. Apparently.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” But I don’t think that’s the case. Sure, it’s a plausible explanation, but could it be that simple? Knowing what I know, I don’t believe it. No matter how much I want to. “But what if…what if it’s someone who knows you from Arizona?”

  His face scrunches up. “Why would anyone follow me across the country to do that?”

  “Out of anger? Spite? Revenge?”

  He shakes off those responses like I’m rattling from a grocery list. “I didn’t do anything back home to warrant a stalker. Trust me.”

  I trust that he wholeheartedly believes that.

  “So.” He’s still holding the Timbit, twisting it around, getting powdered sugar all over his fingers. “You came over to my apartment.”

  I blink, confused by the sudden subject change. “Uh, yeah.”

  He grins. “What for?”

  My cheeks warm, but I force myself not to look away from his penetrating gaze. “I wanted to see you.”

  “Were you going to ask me on a date?” He leans in closer, smiling like I’ve unlocked the key to the universe.

  I tip my head, my cheeks still burning. “Not exactly.”

  He grins. “So you missed my pretty face?”

  I find myself laughing, and it doesn’t make any sense that I can sit here and laugh and smile and joke. But maybe it’s better this way because dwelling on our ending isn’t going to help anything. Being sad and distraught over it will never be the answer.