Page 41 of Silenced

Then…

I gasp as I climb back onto the bed and study the painting above it which is tucked safely behind glass.

“Climate controlled,” I whisper as I peer at the canvas.

Art history classes come to my aid in helping me recognize the artist—Clyfford Still.

I even recognize the work—PH-144.

It had been featured in an article a couple of years ago because the original owners had passed away and Sotheby’s had secured twenty pieces from their collection.

If my memory’s right, then I’m looking at thirty million dollars.

Literallylooking at it.

I slept beneath it.

It’s stupid, but that doubles down on my panic from earlier.

How rich is this bastard if he can have that hanging above his bed?

And it’s not like he stole it. This was a legitimate sale, for God’s sake.

As I sink onto my heels, I stare at the canvas, wondering how it escaped my attention last night.

On a background of textured white/cream, larger ‘puddles’ of black, gray, and red dominate the canvas. It reminds me of those Rorschach inkblot pictures where you have to explain to a therapist what you see amid those blotches of black paint.

This has more direction, more of a purpose, but the red and the black almost makes me want to drown in grief while, on the upper right quadrant, the sharpest, brightest patch of yellow oversees it all.

It’s like the sun.

Rays of light beam through the shadows.

Without knowing why, I shudder at the sight and huddle into the comforter then jump when the sound of a lock clicking ricochets around the cavernous space.

Turning to the doorway, I swallow when I see the man walk through it.

He takes me in with a single glance, managing to appear utterly calm when I’m the opposite.

It’s stupid when he’s the one who put me in this goddamn room, but seeinghiscalm enables me to inhale with more ease and to release the exhalation without feeling as if my lungs are constricted.

I twist on the bed and watch him step inside, only now taking note of the tray in his hands. My stomach rumbles with an aching need but I ignore it. I’m used to it. It’s either my PCOS or just bad genes that means months on the run without regular meals have made me drop only a handful of pounds while keeping most of my ‘bulk.’

Fucking hormones.

In the silence I’m coming to associate with him, he moves over to a wall beside the bathroom recess, then he places his hand againstsomethingand a panel pops up. He taps in a few numbers and a door slides back, revealing an opening.

Blinking, I watch as he steps inside.

“That wasn’t weird,” I mumble. “Or faintlyStar Trek-esque.”

I stay on the bed, wondering what he’s doing andwhyhe’s doing it in here.

Then, because I can’t confirm my stupidity quickly enough, I clamber off the mattress, recognizing that the bed could do with one of those steps to hike onto it, and pad over to the opening.

I don’t walk straight through, just peep around the corner and…

“Wow,” I exclaim.

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