Page 9 of Another Girl Lost

“Yes.”

“Looking forward to seeing you tonight, then.”

Desire sparked in his gaze. To his credit, it was subtle. A classy kind of horny. I knew I was attractive. I’m tall, have blond hair and full breasts, and I realized men had noticed me since I was twelve.

Whereas some women understood this power and wielded it to promote or entertain themselves, I’d learned ten years ago that playing with fire risked third-degree burns.

“See you tonight.” I knelt to my supplies and began to close paints and wipe off brushes. “I’ve got fifteen minutes to get cleaned up and out of here before the center fully wakes.”

“Sure. I don’t want to get in your way.” He took a step back.

I reached for the cloth hooked to my belt and wrapped up my brushes, which I would clean thoroughly back at my studio.

“How many hours does something like this take?” Luke asked.

“Ninety to one hundred, give or take.”

“All in the early-morning hours?”

“Basically.”

“My hat’s off to you, Scarlett. Great work.”

“Secret messages aside.”

He laughed. “They make it interesting.”

Having him close and watching me so intently was disconcerting. It was normal for a man and woman in our age range to flirt, but nothing about my interactions with men had been normal. I’d gone from the occasional middle school sloppy kiss to nonstop violence. With no frame of reference or jumping-off point, I couldn’t read the signals most women could.

I rolled up my drop cloth, not as neatly as I’d have liked, but I was working quickly because suddenly, I wanted to be out of here. IfI’d been more cautious a decade ago, if I’d made one decision that was slightly different, my life wouldn’t have been shattered. Just a moment’s hesitation might have allowed me to escape Tanner’s grip. A slight pause could have been enough for someone to see him shoving me into the van, and that person might have called the cops. Another squandered moment and I might have missed the bus altogether that night and not been anywhere near Tanner’s van parked by the Naro theater.

I’d put the pieces of my life back together, but healed fractures were never as strong as the original. I couldn’t risk another hit—this time there might be no fixing me.

“Have a good one, Mr. Kane.”

“Luke.”

My pursed lips curled into what I hoped was a not-too-friendly but not rude (which could piss him off) smile. I didn’t want to suggest any interest on my part.

When I moved toward the recreation room doors, Luke beat me to the handle and opened it. “Good to meet you, Scarlett.”

He’d moved too quickly and quietly. It was jarring. “Yes. Right.”

I walked past the security checkpoint, waved to the new morning guard on duty, and hurried out the front door to my truck. I slung my items into the back seat and then slid behind the front wheel. My mouth was dry, and my palms were sweating slightly only because I’d been alone with a man in a public space. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Flushed cheeks brightened my green eyes.

I started the truck and shifted it into gear. The drive back took longer in morning traffic, but eventually I parked in the alley behind the warehouse where I lived and worked.

Gray with large windows, it was three thousand square feet. Back in the day, it had been constructed to house goods shipped into the Port of Norfolk.

Located in the center of Norfolk, it was blocks from the NEON art district, a mile from the railyards and ports, and another mile from the tony Waterside District. The Judge had helped me find the spacesix years ago with the monies she’d raised for me on a GoFundMe page. The property had been in foreclosure, so it had been a steal. I’d had generous offers to sell the building last year, but I liked this once-forgotten and neglected space.

I held my breath as I unloaded my paints and hurried toward the back door. I punched a code into the digital panel and slipped inside. After flipping another half dozen locks, I allowed my gaze to wander to the print blocks, machine presses, paints, and canvases. I let out the breath I’d been holding since I’d left that morning.

As my supplies slipped from my fingers to the concrete floor, I glanced at the Della portrait. I walked up to the three-by-five-foot canvas, reached for a brush, and pressed the bristled edges to barely tacky paint. I was tempted to scrub around Della’s eyes, dig into damp layers I’d piled on over the last few days, and rework both. Maybe I could add depth.

Or better, find a way to decouple our molecules that seemed forever cleaved together.

A fist pounded against my front door. Irritated by the distraction, I carefully covered Della’s face and moved to the front window. I paused, looked out, and saw a stocky man on my stoop. He was wearing a dark suit that was a bit worn but clean, a white shirt, and a yellow tie. His hair was cut short, and the edges of his sideburns were sharp. At nine in the morning, he was clean shaven, but I bet he’d be sporting a slight five-o’clock shadow by noon. Good, practical dusty black shoes rounded out the look. Behind him, parked by the curb, was a nondescript dark-blue four-door.

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