Page 40 of Ashes of Saints

I watch Aurora shovel fries inside her mouth. For such a beautiful woman, she really is a hot mess.

I drop my shake on the table and lean back on the uncomfortable sofa cushions.

Christ, if I am going to be seeing this girl for a few weeks while awaiting the DNA results and earning her trust so I can get inside her mother’s home, I might buy her a new sofa.

The last thing I want is a spring to stab me or rip one of my custom-made suits.

I glance around the room, as the noisy munching beside me continues, and spot a painting. The more I look, the more I realize how much depth there is to it.

Where did she get this?

Large waves dominate the coastline with a dusting of sand near the bottom. Brown grasses sway in the breeze while a single shell sits all on its own.

There is meaning to this painting that goes beyond what I suspect is its price tag. I’m tempted to ask who the artist is, but I know it’s likely to be Target or similar and she’ll be embarrassed.

Could even be AI these days.

Slurp.

“I know, I know. It’s not exactly Monet, but it’s my favorite, so I got it framed and hung.”

Slurp.

Wait...what?

“Because you...” My question hangs in the moldy apartment air.

I’ll also get her a dehumidifier.

“Like it, Parker. I like it. That’s what favorite meannsss.”

Jesus Christ. I’m going to have to pull it out of her drunk brain. Who gets drunk at their mother’s funeral for crying out loud?

Actually, I can’t talk.

I didn’t even go to my father’s. And I probably would have gotten smashed if I had, so I take back the judgment.

Still, she’s pretty trashed.

“Your favorite from all your...??” I nudge more.

“Paintings. For a Brown educated man, you aren’t very smart.” She slurps her shake again and this time I just laugh.

She’s so fucking ridiculous I can’t help it.

“Aurora. Jesus. Did you paint that?” I finally ask.

“Yes. Who else do you think painted it? There is no one else here.”

That makes no sense, but she’s drunk as hell so I ignore it and simply stare. Then glance back at the painting in wonder.

It’s good.

Really damn good.

“Where are your others?” I ask.

“What?”

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