Page 125 of The Painter and His Poet

“Sure,” I murmur before striding down the hallway in the opposite direction. With every step I can feel CouncillorHoxton’s gaze boring into my skin, and it’s all I can do not to break into a run.

Once outside, I make my way toward Sterling’s studio. It isn’t until I step inside and lock the door behind me that I finally allow myself to take a shaky breath. With trembling hands, I pull out my phone and dial Sterling’s number, but after a few rings, it goes to voicemail.

“Sterling, it’s me. Councillor Hoxton ishere. I don’t know what to do. I’m scared. Please call back,” I say, before hanging up and clutching the phone to my chest.

I leave it a few more minutes before trying again, but once again it goes to voicemail after a few rings. Frustrated and anxious, I send Sterling a text as well.

For the next half an hour I pace back and forth in Sterling’s studio, my mind racing with all the possible scenarios that could unfold with Councillor Hoxton’s unexpected appearance. Is this just more mind games? Has he figured out that we’re on to him? What if he’s here tonight to finally follow through on his threats?

“This can’t be happening,” I cry, trembling so violently that I have to take a seat on Sterling’s threadbare couch.

Surely Councillor Hoxton wouldn’t act on his threats with my mother and Robert both here? It’s not as if he can really hurt me while they’re around, can he?

Wait..!

What if wewerewrong and he isn’t my stalker? What then?

Try as I might, I can’t dampen the sense of dread gnawing at me, and just when I’m about to give in to a full-blown panic attack, my phone rings. It’s Sterling.

“Oh, thank God,” I say, snatching it up and pressing it to my ear.

“I got your message. I’m on my way, Harlow. Where are you now?” he asks me, his voice tight with worry.

“I’m at your studio,” I reply, relief flooding through me at the sound of his voice.

“Good. Have you locked the door?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Okay, stay where you are. Do not leave the studio.You’ll be safe there. I’m coming as quickly as I can.”

“I won’t. Sterling what does this mean? If he hasn’t bought the paintings then could we have the wrong person?”

“All the paintings have been bought,” he replies tensely.

“By who?”

“A few from some of the guests tonight, but most from an undisclosed buyer. It has to be Hoxton. It was stupid of me to think he’d actually attend the viewing. This is my fault, Harlow. I’ve forced his hand and put you in danger. Fuck!” he shouts, his fear amplifying my own.

Forcing myself to calm down, I say, “Just get here safely. I’ll wait until you arrive.”

“I love you,” he replies.

“I love you too.”

Dropping the phone onto the couch, I grab a thick blanket that’s draped over the arm of the sofa and wrap it around my shoulders, trying to ward off the chill that has settled deep into my bones. Minutes tick by agonisingly slowly as I stare blankly at the wall, waiting for Sterling to arrive. After an hour and a half has passed, my eyelids begin to droop, weighed down by my sheer exhaustion, but just as I feel myself slipping into an uneasy slumber, the sound of a key twisting in the lock jolts me awake.

“Sterling?!” I say, sitting bolt upright.

The door creaks open, an icy blast of air cutting through the studio as a figure stands in the doorway. But it’s not Sterling.

It’s Robert.

“Robert? What are you doing here?” I ask, as he steps into the studio, a look of relief on his face.

“You didn’t return, and when your mother said you weren’t in your room she insisted I go and find you. I must admit I had a moment's regret buying such a huge mansion, so many rooms to get lost in. I might’ve known you’d be here,” he replies, stepping into the studio and shutting the door behind him.

I watch him as he turns his back to me, and locks the door. It takes me a moment to register what he’s doing, but when I do, all the blood drains from my body.

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