Page 117 of Game Misconduct
Because she’s here.
And I want to do this right.
She steps away with her wine, her eyes trailing over the far wall near the hallway. A moment later she stops.
“Is that a comic book?”
I follow her line of sight. The signed copy ofChronoBlade #1is mounted in a black shadow box. The ink still looks fresh under the glare of the recessed lighting.
“My cousin Griffin used to love these,” she says, leaning in. “We’d buy issues from the gas station near his house and read them in the treehouse until it got dark. He was obsessed with time travel and twin storylines.”
My brow lifts. “Solid taste.”
“It’s signed. Did you know the artist?”
My throat works around the sip of wine I just took. “Not exactly.”
She glances over her shoulder. “That sounds like a story.”
I shrug, but my voice roughens. “Not really. I recently bought it at auction, actually. Connor, the kid I met at the hospital visit, draws comic books and reminded me how much Iloved drawing. So when I saw it come up for auction, I bought it.”
Her face softens. “You draw?”
“Used to. A lot. Mostly on the road. It helped.”
“Do you still have anything?”
I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s not for anyone else to see.”
“Maddox. Please.”
I grit my jaw. She says my name like it’s a key, like she already knows it’ll unlock something I’ve kept locked up tight for years.
“I’m not trying to analyze you,” she says gently. “I’m just…curious.”
Her voice is soft but direct. And I’m shit at saying no to her.
I sigh, set down my glass, and walk to the hall closet. Pulling a small black portfolio from the top shelf, I hand it to her without opening it.
She takes it over to the table and sits down. Taking her time, she opens the zipper slow, like the contents deserve reverence.
Inside there’s a few inked panels, mostly from memory. A goalie with a cracked mask. A girl with green eyes and a sharp tongue. A city that looks suspiciously like Boston and burns in the background.
She flips through carefully, not speaking at first. Just taking it in.
Finally: “Maddox…these are incredible.”
I shake my head, uncomfortable. “Just something to kill time.”
“No,” she says, firm now. “This is storytelling. This is pain and heart and character. You ever think of doing more with it?”
“No.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “You should.”
