Page 32 of Lost in the Moonlight

Hardy grew quiet before saying, “Nothing on paper. But with these kinds of small-time criminal elements, I wouldn’t be surprised. Big fish, small pond, end up thinking they have rights they don’t.”

It was my turn to be quiet, and it raised alarm bells for Hardy. I was sorry I’d called him when he offered, without hesitation, “If you need me down there, I’ll find a way to scramble a team. Even if it’s off the books until we get the paperwork sorted.”

He’d do it too. Because he was a good man. Because he’d seen me through some rough spots. Some of my own making, like letting Felicity into my life when I’d known deep inside it was wrong from the start, and some caused by the life I was forced to live, unable to go anywhere without the press following me. I’d kept to the shadows not so much to stay safe as to keep my life private. In many ways, I knew what Willow was going through, even if our circumstances were completely different. Half-lives were never going to fulfill us.

“No. I’m good. Information is king, right? I just needed to know who I was dealing with.”

“You shouldn’t be dealing with anyone, especially not with the election looming.”

“I think it’ll resolve itself. If it doesn’t, I’ll give you a shout.” I could practically hear the frown I knew he was wearing. “Seriously, Hardy. I need you to keep a tight lid on this for now. If I need you, I won’t be stupid about it.”

Hardy sighed. “Do me a favor?”

“Yeah?”

“At least keep your goddamn phone with you.”

I laughed as he’d intended, but I also got the message he was delivering. “I’m calling you on it, aren’t I?”

“Well, slide it into a pocket right now, and keep it there. GPS locator is on, right?”

“Yep.” I hardly ever had it off, as it was an easy way for me to find it when I’d misplaced it. “Sorry I woke you, Hardy. Give Libby my love.”

“Keep your smooth words away from my wife, Picasso,” Hardy grumbled, tossing the Secret Service’s code name for me in my face.

I was smiling as I hung up and felt better than I had since hearing that creepy tune drifting through the fog while I’d walked Willow to work.

I slipped my phone into the back pocket of the jeans I’d pulled on at one in the morning. I’d gotten maybe three hours of sleep before my eyes had jolted open. But three hours was better than the zero I had some days.

I flicked on the photography lamps and took in the work I’d done the day before.

I hadn’t completely filled in Willow yet. I’d just left a vague impression of her on the canvas. But I knew now that she wouldn’t be in ghostly white. Her dress would be cotton-candypink. The cemetery would have its dark shadows, but it would slowly blend into more vivid colors the nearer the objects got to her, as if she was changing it, bringing it to life. The second panel would show a mosaic on the mausoleum like the one she’d designed for her dessert. Except, this would be one of my own making.

Something about the broken-winged angel I could see from my bedroom window was still calling to me, but I didn’t have it right yet. Maybe it would come alive. Maybe it would flutter like the butterfly I’d also imagined her to be, disappearing off the final canvas. I wasn’t sure yet.

For now, I’d get to work on the finer details tucked into the gloom. The headstones and the names Willow wanted to be remembered. The twirling curves of the wrought-iron gates and stone pillars. The black and white and gray before the color emerged.

I tossed my jacket in a corner, grabbed my charcoal pencils, and started where I’d left off, clearer now than before on the details I wanted to surround Willow.

? ? ?

I worked for hours while the sun shifted through the room, spreading a pastel color as sweet as Willow across my painting before disappearing into the bright white of late morning. I was almost done with the shadows and getting ready to drift into the color when my phone rang.

I was tempted to ignore it as usual, but it was Lyrica’s ringtone. I’d left her to single-handedly run my business, so it would be stupid and cruel to ignore her.

“You’re interrupting me mid-stroke,” I said as way of a greeting.

“You’re painting?” Surprise littered every syllable, proving again that it had been too long since I’d had pencils and brushes in hand.

“Just starting the sketch. But yes, I’m working on something. What do you need?”

“I had an artist pop by yesterday. Her work is all wrong for our vibe here, but it might work down there in that disgusting fairy-tale town you’ve hidden yourself in.”

I chuckled, set aside my pencils, and made my way down to the loft’s bathroom to wash my hands. “Tell me how you really feel about Cherry Bay.”

“I have nothing new to add that you don’t already know. Seriously, Lincoln, you need to see this woman’s art.”

“What is it?”

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