One of Those Faces (19)

I took a swig of the coffee. It was much stronger and richer than my brew typically turned out. I still hadn’t quite mastered the water-to-bean ratio.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m not very good at making coffee.”

“No, it’s perfect.”

He drained the remaining coffee from his cup. “Well, I guess I need to get back to it,” he said, rising up from his chair.

I stood up, my head reeling with sharp pain as if someone were banging on my skull with a chisel. “Back to grading papers?”

He sighed, placing his mug in the sink. “Yep. Someone has to read all those horribly written essays about Freud. If not me, then who?” He smiled and stepped closer toward me. Close enough to kiss, but I kept my face down. “You’re probably going to have a pretty bad hangover. Are you going to be okay?”

It was only going to get worse. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” My head pulsed as if to disagree.

He grabbed his jacket from the bed and folded it over his forearm. “What’s this?” He bent down and picked up a sheet of paper from the floor.

I caught a glimpse over his shoulder at the drawing and lost my breath. It was identical to the one I had ripped to shreds at the studio. Two girls with green dresses facing water. Blood was smudged on the edges, although not as much as on the previous drawing. I tugged it from his grip. “I don’t know,” I said breathlessly.

He looked at me. “Did you draw that?”

I stared down at the two girls. They were facing toward the water again like in the last drawing. “I don’t know.”

“Is that real blood?” His eyes were wide as he stared at the drawing.

“I have a headache. I think I need to lie down.” I tossed the drawing onto the bed and put my palm to my temple. “I . . . we drank too much last night.”

He continued to look at me as he edged toward the door. “Are you really okay?”

I massaged my forehead. “Yeah, I, uh, let’s talk later.”

He reluctantly stepped outside. “Okay, see you.”

I closed the door, latching it behind him before I sprang back to the drawing. The pencil strokes were furious and had worn through the paper in several places.

My foot stepped into something wet, and I recoiled. There were small dark-red puddles on the floor. I bent down on my knees and wiped up the blood with a paper towel, my palm still aching from the cut. I tore off another sheet and wiped another couple of spots away under the corner of my bed.

I walked to the bathroom, shed my clothes, and staggered into the shower. The shock of cold water lasted two seconds too long, and my headache grew worse for it. Looking down, I watched as a stream of black water swirled down the drain. I lifted one foot as a dark puddle formed around it. Dirt was caked on, along with a few leaves. I grabbed the bar of soap on the ledge and furiously scrubbed away at my foot before moving on to the next one.

I sat on the edge of the tub, water trailing down my body and feet, gathering together in a cakey clump of mud right before it swirled down the drain. Leaving the water running, I opened the shower curtain and wrapped a towel around my body and walked over to the bed. I yanked the comforter away on the side I had slept with it wrapped around me. On the sheets, there were dots of blood from my hand, but at the end of the bed, there were dirt and leaves where my feet had been only minutes before.

I ripped the sheets off the bed and flipped the comforter over. In the shower, I rigorously scrubbed at the dirt on the sheets. Goose bumps rose along my skin as I watched the brown leaves trail down into the basin and clog the drain.





CHAPTER EIGHT


Sitting on the bed, I tried to calm myself by stroking Woodstock. The news was on. Unseasonably warm the next few days until rain on Saturday. It wouldn’t matter much to me since I was going back into hibernation until my project was finished.

There was a shuffle outside my door, and a paper appeared through the worn rubber sealing and fell to the floor. I listened for quick, heavy footsteps down the stairs outside before leaving the bed and snatching the paper. It was an overdue-rent notice. Typical Bug. He handwrote all his notices in red ink on slightly yellowed paper he got from god knows where.

I crumpled the notice and tossed it onto my nightstand. Now I had one more reason to finish the damn project. I had missed too many days at the studio to make up the difference this early in the month. I settled into my desk chair and pulled out the thumbnail drawing board. Only two more drawings to finalize. As I picked up my pencil, I refocused on the TV playing behind me.

“A murderer is still at large after a young local woman was found strangled in an alley in Wicker Park.”

My hand froze the pencil in the middle of the paper, and I spun around in my chair. A picture of Holly was on the screen as the broadcaster continued. Seeing her again was just as jarring.

“Police are asking for anyone with information about this case to come forward. You can call the number at the bottom of the screen.”

My fingers pressed down on the pencil. It snapped in half. I threw the remaining fragment onto the table and pushed away. If I was going to pull an all-nighter to make my rent money in time, I would need coffee. The good kind. And lots of it. A small allowance of fresh air probably wouldn’t hurt either.

I grabbed my bag and jacket and bounded out the door.

“Who was that guy?” The grating voice arose behind me as I reached the bottom step.