Page 91 of The Tattoo Artist

“Oh god, Ares, she hasn’t come home since she left with you!” Her words hit me like a ton of bricks, and shock plastered across my face.

“What the hell do you mean she hasn’t come home?” I yell, my heart racing with concern.

“I—I don’t know where she is!” Aunt Coraline sounds genuinely worried. My mind races, trying to piece together the events of the past few days. It suddenly clicks, and my eyes widen with realisation.

“I know where she is. I’ll bring her,” I said urgently before ending the phone call. I reached for my wallet to grab my credit card, only to remember that she had it with her. “Adonis, pay the bill and give me your keys.” Adonis looks taken back.

Adonis looks taken aback for a moment, but he quickly nods in agreement. “Of course, I’ll pay the bill gladly.” He hands his credit card to Christian to settle the tab. “But you’re not driving my new car.”

“Are you fucking serious? My wife is missing.”

He shrugs his shoulder, “I’m driving, end of story.”

Christian hands Adonis his credit card back, and we quickly made our way to his car. With a heavy heart, I settle into the passenger seat, feeling helpless and anxious about what we would find.

“Where to?”

“The museum near Cane street.” He nods his head and begins to drive.

I couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to her, and I felt a sense of urgency to find her and bring her back to safety.

“Can you drive faster?” I growl at him.

“Hey, this is a five hundred-thousand-dollar car.”

“I’ll buy three of these if you drive faster.”

“Including the fitted exhaust?”

I shoot him a death stare.

“Jeez, alright I’m driving.”

As we sped towards our destination, the minutes felt like hours. Each passing moment fills me with of hope and dread. I try to keep my emotions in check, but the fear the unknown is overwhelming.

Finally, we arrive at the place where I believe she would be. I step out of the car, slamming the door shut but then I see my car parked in the car park with at least four yellow tickets under the wipers. I enter the museum and make my way down to the private room in the back.

Finally, I see her sleeping on a bench in front of the painting.

She is wearing the same clothes she left in three days ago, and a bottle of whiskey lay on the floor beside her.

How was she even allowed to stay here for three days?

As I approach, another figure appears next to me—the security guard. He looks at me with a questioning gaze and asks, “can I help you?”

“Just here to pick up my wife,” I respond.

He nods and glances over at her. “She’s been here for three days, you know. We know it’s a twenty-four-seven museum, but-”

“So how did you let her stay here?” I interject.

“She actually bought the painting,” the security guard explains. “I wasn’t allowed to kick her out.”

My eyebrows furrow in surprise. She had bought the painting. That is unexpected, but it explains why the museum staff didn’t intervene to remove her.

“How did she pay?”

“She had a Black American Express card, I think?”

---