Archenemies (Renegades #2)(52)

Try—and fail? He wasn’t sure then, and he wasn’t sure now. What he did know was that they hadn’t found her body, or even bits of it, gruesome as the thought was.

Only her mask.

But what did it matter? Even if Winston was right and she was alive, Adrian was no closer to finding her. He had no more clues to investigate. No more leads to follow. He supposed he could dig through all that stuff from the subway tunnels, but just thinking about that gave him a headache. And if the investigators hadn’t found anything useful, why did he think he would do any better?

After tearing through half the slice of cake, Adrian stood up and marched to his desk. He rummaged around until he found a charcoal pencil.

He would sketch for a while. It always helped focus his thoughts, or at least quiet them.

Grabbing a spiral-bound book from the shelf, he sat down and found a blank page. He let the charcoal guide his fingers, scrawling hasty shapes and messy shadows across the paper, until an image began to take shape.

Overgrown ferns. A moss-covered staircase. A cloaked figure haunting the background.

A shiver shook Adrian so hard, the charcoal scratched a sharp line through the landscape, disrupting the vision. Adrian sat up straighter. The figure was turned away and for a moment, his subconscious returned images of the monster that had haunted his nightmares as a child. It had been years since he’d thought of those terrors, but telling Nova about them had stirred up feelings of powerlessness that he would have preferred to keep buried.

But when he took in the drawing in its entirety, he realized that it wasn’t the monster that he’d been drawing. It was the statue.

The statue at City Park.

This wasn’t his dream, it was Nova’s.

Adrian lowered the sketchbook, an idea sharpening in his thoughts. He stared at the closed door that divided his bedroom from the only other finished room in the basement, though “finished” was a subjective term. It had four walls and a ceiling, all covered with drywall, though not much else. No trim, no texture, not even windows.

He stood, clutching the sketchbook as he opened the door. Striding into the darkness, he waved his arm until his hand collided with a thin chain. With a tug, he turned on the bare light bulb in the center of the ceiling.

When they’d first moved in, Adrian had dubbed this space his “art studio,” somewhat ironically. He had drawn himself an easel and a second worktable and a bookshelf for storing his sketchbooks, which was, admittedly, a little crooked. Otherwise, the space remained barren and a bit on the forlorn side.

He turned in a full circle, inspecting the bare white walls.

His eyes returned to the drawing.

Then back up. White space. Emptiness. A canvas waiting to be filled.

He regarded the meager stash of art supplies he’d been hoarding for years, a vision filling his thoughts.

Turning, he strode back through his bedroom and up the creaky stairs. He found Hugh in front of the TV in the living room, having changed into sweats and an old triathlon T-shirt. (He had served as a commentator, not a contestant, which would have been supremely unfair.)

“No more talk about Nightmare tonight,” said Hugh, without looking up from the TV. “Please.” He clicked through channels until he landed on the news.

Adrian scowled. “I wasn’t going to.”

Hugh shot him a disbelieving look.

“I just wanted to ask if it’s okay for me to paint my studio.”

“What studio?”

“You know, my art studio. That empty room downstairs, next to my bedroom.”

“The storage room?”

Adrian pushed up his glasses. “If storage is code for ‘Adrian’s random drawing stuff,’ then yes.”

“I think he means the room we planned on using for storage,” said Simon, appearing behind Adrian with a bowl of popcorn, “but we didn’t end up needing it.”

“Yep, that’s the one. So, can I paint it?”

Simon flopped onto the sofa, propping his feet on the coffee table. “Fine by me.”

“Cool. Any idea where I can find acrylic paint by the gallon?” As soon as he had asked it, he held up his hand. “You know what? Never mind. I have an old box of pastels down there. I can make my own paint.”

“Why do I get the feeling we’re not talking about a neutral beige in an eggshell finish?” said Hugh.

Adrian grinned. “Does it make a difference?”

“Well, no, not really.”

“That’s what I thought. Thanks!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Hugh, muting the television. “This conversation is not over.”

Adrian paused, one foot already out the door. “It’s not?”

Hugh sighed. “Fifteen minutes ago you were ready to lead a full-scale manhunt for Nightmare, and now you’re painting a room? Why don’t you take twenty seconds and tell us what it is you’re doing?”

Adrian bristled. “Well, I’m not going after Nightmare, or Hawthorn, for that matter, or even running off for patrol duty, given that my team is still waiting for our reinstatement request to be approved. So I have to keep myself busy somehow, right?”

“Adrian,” said Simon, the word a warning. Hugh appeared equally irritated, and for some reason, Adrian had a flashback to his mom, all those years ago, giving him that stern look and a pointed finger and insisting that he drop that attitude, young man.