Page 65 of If You're Reading This
Morgan had shifted in the chair as if testing the restraints. She wasn’t trying to escape—she was too intelligent for futile gestures. No, she was assessing her circumstances.
Her face was beginning to look gaunt, however. She hadn’t wanted to eat. She hadn’t seen the sun in nearly a week. Her clothes were dirty from being unwashed.
Maybe this weekend, I’d sedate her again. Wash her clothes and hair. Add some lavender. Make her beauty shine.
“They’re looking for me.” Her voice sounded quiet but certain.
“I’m counting on it.” I began arranging my chemical trays with practiced precision. “Especially him.”
Morgan went still. “Logan?”
The name hung in the air between us.
I didn’t respond immediately. Instead, the silence stretched, heavy with implication.
“He doesn’t understand you either,” I finally said. “Not completely.”
“And you do?” A hint of bitter challenge had entered her voice.
Progress, I noted. The initial shock was wearing off, revealing Morgan’s true strength.
“I’ve studied every photograph you’ve ever exhibited. Visited every location. Traced the evolution of your vision.” I turned to stare at her. “When I found your early work, I recognized myself in it.”
Morgan’s eyes darted to the far wall, where the timeline of her career hung in meticulous chronological order. I’d recreated her entire exhibition history, supplemented with my own interpretations.
My phone buzzed on the workbench—a custom alert I’d programmed.
I checked the screen and smiled. “Speaking of our next composition. Reuben Walsh just responded to your text.”
I showed her the next notification.
Morgan’s face paled. “That’s not from my phone.”
My grin widened. “Of course not. I was able to clone your number. It’s a very handy tool.”
Realization swept over her features. “So you’re using my phone number to?—”
“To curate our next subject, yes.” I set the phone down and crossed my arms. “Walsh has admired you for almost a year now. He wants to be mentored by you. He wants to be you. That’s why he sends flowers after every exhibition. Calls the gallery repeatedly to ask when you’ll be there.” My voice hardened slightly. “He waited for you in the parking lot three times.”
“I never encouraged him.” Morgan’s voice quivered. “I just can’t mentor everyone who asks. I don’t have time. And not everyone has what it takes.”
“Of course not. You have standards.” I snorted. “Which he disrespected by persisting. That’s why he’s perfect for the ice fissure composition.”
Understanding flickered across her face. “Borealis Lake.”
“You remember.” I smiled, genuinely pleased. “The aurora reflecting in the lake and the single crack in the ice that disrupts the perfect mirroring. It’s one of your finest works.”
She said nothing.
“Walsh believes he’s meeting you there tomorrow.” I moved toward Morgan. “He thinks you’ve finally recognized his talent. It’s the perfect narrative progression for our series.”
I crouched before Morgan’s chair, studying her face with the same intensity I applied to my compositions.
She was so beautiful, far surpassing the beauty she captured in photographs. Exhaustion had hollowed her cheeks slightly, emphasizing the elegant lines of her face and the striking contrast between her dark hair and pale skin.
There was something timeless about her features—the strong cheekbones that hinted at her heritage, the way shadows fell across her face in the dim light. Even bound to that chair, disheveled and afraid, she composed herself like a work of art.
It was as if she understood, on some level, that she was meant to be observed.
