Page 94 of Debt of My Soul

I bite my lip, looking down at the floor, trying not to laugh at the way he said that or how my bare toes curl against the jagged cabin floor. When I finally gather myself enough to look up at him, his eyes are fixed on me. Storm clouds blur the brightness there and I swallow the trickle of unease—perhaps he hadn’t minced his words.

Liam backpedals toward the spot on the couch where I keep my pillow and extra quilt folded and stored. Holding my confused stare, he bends down to grab the pillow, then tosses it at me.

I generally have the reflexes of a baby elephant, so naturally, it smacks my face and falls to the ground while I fumble to gather my arms together but end up hugging empty air.

“It’s all yours, Fleur. Put that in the bedroom where you’ll be sleeping tonight,” Liam says as I bend down to grab it.

Nodding, I shuffle to his bedroom and toss the pillow on the bed, noting the plush puff of sound it makes when it hits. I grin. I mayactuallyget a decent night’s sleep.

Liam moves to the bathroom for a shower while I finish up folding laundry. It takes me twice as long to fold the towels from the dryer because each warm, fuzzy towel calls for a hug.

With night settled in and the compound lampposts lit, Liam takes off for the clubhouse to check in and grab the pizza.

Dinner with the Parkers the other night made me miss my family. It’s rare I go this long without checking in, and while I don’t have a phone, I think I could convince Liam a letter would be okay to send.

A desk sits in the living room, directly across from the couch and the coffee table. After standing in the kitchen studying it with a can of sparkling water in my hand, I finally give in and pad over.

It’s old, maybe even antique.

My mind wanders to Mr. and Mrs. Northgate, and I wonder if they passed it on to him. The tattered wood is worn and well loved, from the looks of it. I slowly open the single drawer in the front, glancing over my shoulder as if someone may catch me. Liam never said this was off-limits, and I’m only looking for paper and a pencil since all digital options are unavailable to me at the moment.

Luck is on my side. I find paper. It’s not lined or anything, and when I pull it out, the weight is heavier than your average computer stock. Running my fingers over the paper, it’s slightly textured and I flip through the stack, searching underneath for another option.

Unable to, I grab a few sheets and hip check the drawer closed.

There’s an olive-green pencil pouch nestled on top of a folder in the corner and presuming there are pens, I open it, only to be proven otherwise.

Black pencils are tucked neatly in loops, each with a different number stamped in gold across the top. A fine dust coats the inside, and I frown.Huh.

I eyeball the pencils, then flick my gaze back toward the drawer a few more times before finally landing on the leather folder—no portfolio.

A corner piece of paper sticks out, and I tug at it, revealing the start of a sketch. There’s no making out what it is with only the corner exposed. With another glance at the door, I slide the leather portfolio toward me and before I can second-guess my invasion of Liam’s privacy, I fling it open.

Pages and pages of drawings drift out.

I’m stunned motionless.

I stare down at the first one. The medium seems to be something different than the pencils I found. This is a chalkier substance and not as detailed.

There, smudged and buffed out, is the small run-down church on the outside of Ruin I’ve passed a few times. It resembles one of those large sheds, and fixed on top is a stippled point with a bell. The thing is like a hundred years old and could be considered a historical monument at this point.

I’ll be the first to admit I know squat about drawing. Anything creative I’ve had to work at my whole life, and I don’t consider myself a natural at much. Even photography was a pipe dream of mine. However, I recognize the painstaking talent this drawing must have taken, and I’m floored.

Liam captured every detail despite the lack of color. I flip through several more pages of older buildings scattered around Ruin, admiring his work.

The next drawing gives me pause. A few pencil-drawn oranges are piled in a wooden crate eerily similar to those we get at the farmer’s market.

I blink. Theyarethe oranges from the farmer’s market.

A flash of memory hits me. The rumble of a motorcycle taking off down the road after a thump on my front porch had delivered my crate of oranges.

Stunned, I flip the page, only to be hit with another. My throat instantly closes, and a pit knots itself in my stomach.

The point of view is from a camera, and it’s looking into a cell.

The cell I was in.

And there, curled up on the barely functional cot, is a figure—me. I grab the picture, pulling it closer to my face as if that will help me understand. I can’t comprehend what I’m seeing. He drew me? At my most vulnerable state, he drew me.

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