Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
It’s gorgeous.
And flawless.
He’s right—it’s like I’ve surfaced from somewhere dark and comfortable, like forcing my way out from a womb.
“You’re finished,” he says, squeezing my knees. “That’s why you’re coming back out.”
“Back out of what? What the hell happened to me?”
“You were in the zone. It’s actually kind of amazing. I’ve heard of people able to get into a flow state like that before—”
“Flow state?”
“It’s that weird space where your brain’s just gliding along totally engrossed in a task, to the point where there’s nothing else in the world. Most people can’t get there very easily, but I think you’ve been in a kind of trance.”
My stomach growls. I cover it with both hands and groan. “I had no clue I could do that.”
“I bet you’ve been doing it your whole life. Probably not to this extreme, but there also haven’t been such huge stakes before.”
“Well, I did use to spend all night studying when I was younger. And in college, at art school, I could stay in the studio for hours and hours and forget I was there.” I take another sip of tea. This time, it’s a more reasonable temperature. “Well, shit, I really have been doing it my whole life. I always thought that was normal, you know?”
“There you go.” He holds out a hand and helps me up. “What do you say, are we really done? I need to call Frost in a few hours and tell him we’re all set. Do you think it’ll be enough?”
I step away from the canvas and feel myself cross some invisible barrier back into the world, fully present in the moment for the first time in days.
I feel like shit. My head’s pounding. My stomach’s a wreck.
I stare at what I’ve created, at the piece of art sitting on the easel, and there’s no part of me that thinks anyone could ever tell the difference between this and what Vermeer himself made.
“It’s perfect,” I say, nodding slowly.
And it’s true. Deep in my heart, I know I’ve done it.
Erick hugs me tight against him. “I’m proud of you,” he whispers, kissing my hair. “Hellie, you gorgeous, talented girl. I’m so proud of you.”
“I need to eat,” I say as my stomach grumbles a second time.
“Go ahead, get some food.” He sits me down. “I’m going to make some calls. When you’re done, I want you to go right into bed and sleep, okay?”
“But what if you need me?”
“No, Hellie. Your job is over. Go get some sleep.”
I shift in my chair and glance back at the canvas. I can almost feel it calling to me again. The last five days have been nothing but painting and more painting, a steady stream of creation, and it feels strange to come out of that. Back into the mundane world. Some part of me wants to go back in, to forget everything else, forget my troubles.
Except if I did that, I’d lose Erick again.
He’d disappear into the background noise of the room like he did last time, and when I look at him and he looks back with that gorgeous face and those adoring eyes, I don’t want that to happen.
I want to be here with him for a while.
“Yeah, okay,” I say, shoveling soup into my mouth. “I guess you’re up now, boss.”
He kisses me again before snapping a photo of the painting on his phone. I feel strangely possessive of it, but this is the point, isn’t it? Someone will buy this painting for a lot of money and display it in their house—or store it somewhere as a way to launder some cash. Either way, that thing is no longer mine. It’s no longer a work I made.
It’s a Vermeer.
Erick leaves and I’m alone again.
I eat, and when I’m done, I barely make it back to bed before I crash.
Chapter 20
Erick
I carry the painting with both hands, moving through the crowded casino toward the poker room. Ren walks beside me, strolling along like there’s nothing going on, though I know he’s armed and ready to draw down on anyone who gets too close.
“How’s the girl feeling?” he asks. “She looked like shit last time I checked.”
“She’s been asleep for almost twelve hours now. I think her body’s a wreck.”
“I’m not surprised. She put herself through hell.”
“Five days of nothing but painting.” I laugh to myself, still insanely impressed. I don’t know anyone who could focus on a single difficult task for that long without going insane, but she was like a laser. It was beautiful, but a little terrifying—to her, the rest of the world ceased to exist.
She didn’t even know that I was taking care of her.
Day and night. I watched over her obsessively, lurking in the hallway, listening to her work. She whispered to herself as she painted, though it never made any sense, not to me at least. I still loved hearing her voice, loved watching her move around, thumping in the dark, staggering in the daylight, making something incredible from nothing but color.