Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 73091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Something had occurred to him while we were on the elevator—something that had made him react by clamping onto the wall.
Then the painting.
The key.
He wasn’t ready to talk about the key yet. That was obvious. But he had asked me to share with him the names of the therapists I’d found who practiced guided hypnosis.
He was ready to pursue something.
Maybe.
I had to go to work tomorrow. Would Roy be there? He didn’t always come into the office.
So I’d go to him. I set my alarm for an hour earlier.
Tomorrow morning, I was going to Roy’s.
I was going to help him find the key.
36
Roy
Elevator.
The elevator.
How had I forgotten so much?
How?
Easy. I’d forgotten because I’d had to live with what I’d seen. What I’d encountered. What I could never unsee.
Not unless I shoved it into a locked chest in the farthest part of my mind.
I’d done it.
All this time, I knew it was there, but I never allowed myself to see it. So many years had passed that I almost convinced myself it was my imagination. Just a horrible image that I’d once created.
After all, I was an artist.
A creator.
Creations weren’t always beautiful. Sometimes they were vicious. Sometimes they were ugly.
Sometimes they were from the depths of hell.
The elevator.
The goddamned elevator.
James.
James Earl Jones.
Reid’s contacts named James.
Named Jim.
Jim.
Father Jim.
Why did I abhor Father Jim? Father Jim wasn’t one of those pedophilic priests the church protected. Father Jim had never touched me or my brothers. Or my sister, as far as I knew.
He’d baptized all of us, given us our first communion.
In return, Derek Wolfe had kept his parish alive with massive donations.
Donations to a church, to the nearby convent, to their food pantry and their shelters.
Derek Wolfe, who hadn’t given two shits about the hungry and the homeless.
Why?
Why?
Why?
The key.
The key.
I had the key now.
All I had to do was insert it into the lock, turn it, and…
Find the truth.
The truth I’d been hiding.
The truth that had fucked with my mind for so damned long.
Was I ready?
Even if I was ready, would it help the current situation?
It might.
It might not.
But one thing was certain.
It could help me.
I could finally be free of what plagued me. What was always there, in the back of my brain, fucking with me.
Fear cloaked me.
What if I needed it? Needed it for my art? What if I was only able to create because of my struggle?
I couldn’t give up my art.
Couldn’t.
So only one thing to do.
Bury the key.
37
Charlie
I inhaled deeply, adjusting my dark red skirt. I’d splurged on several new suits when Lacey had offered me the new position, but I’d been a little wary of wearing the red.
Today, though, I wanted to knock Roy’s socks off so he’d talk to me. It was early, and he might still be in bed, but I rang for him anyway.
“Yeah?” came his voice from the intercom.
I cleared my throat. “It’s me. I mean…it’s Charlie.”
Nothing for a moment. Then, “Come on up.” The door buzzed open.
I kept myself from hyperventilating in the elevator.
The elevator.
Although not this building, the elevator was where Roy had freaked out last night. What was it about an elevator?
I’d come here for one reason—to help Roy find the key. Whatever the key was. The key, I was sure, was some kind of metaphor. We weren’t looking for a real key, of course. But what was the key a metaphor for?
Roy was ready to open up. He’d asked me for the names of the therapists who could do guided hypnosis.
I sighed. It wasn’t my place to try to get information out of him, but here I was anyway, clad in daring red—
The elevator door opened. I walked slowly toward Roy’s door.
As I lifted my hand to knock, Roy opened the door.
I sucked in a breath. He was wearing nothing but a pair of white lounging pants. His abs smacked me upside the head. He was so magnificent. His hair was a mass of disarray hanging around his shoulders. Smears of paint—blues, mostly—striped his chest, arms, and hands.
“I-I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I woke you up.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t sleep.”
“You were painting.”
He nodded.
Odd, that he hadn’t pulled his hair from his eyes.
“What are you working on?”
“Something new.”
“May I—”
“No. It’s not ready yet.”
“Have you—”
“No,” he said again. “I haven’t looked at your watercolor.”
“But you had to move it, to get ready to paint, right?”
“I’m capable of moving a painting that’s covered off the easel without looking at it, Charlie.”
Charlie again. Not silver.
Roy was…not Roy.
Or maybe he was Roy. Maybe I really didn’t know Roy at all, despite the closeness we’d shared. After all, only days had passed…
“I didn’t mean to suggest—”
“I told you I wouldn’t look at it, and I never break my word.”
His dark eyes seared into me. “I know. I mean, I didn’t—”
His lips came down on mine.
Hard.
Raw.
Almost intimidating.