Page 94 of Shattered
CHAPTER 26
Melissa
Rourke parked across the street from the Loft, almost in the same exact spot he had parked in on the opening night. This time, it was a rare sunny day in Sage City. The sky was blue for once, not gray, and the clouds were spread apart like the illustrations in a children’s book.
Using a key I had borrowed from my mother, I opened up the glass door, letting us both inside. I found the switch and the lights flickered on.
It reminded me of walking through a museum. Remnants of a past that I didn’t understand, but was fascinated by. Rourke stood in front of a painting of a moon hanging over the water, the darkness seeming to envelop the frame.
Rourke had insisted that we visit the gallery one last time before leaving. I guess it was a ceremonial way to say goodbye to that part of my life. Maybe he wanted to make sure that I wouldn’t have any regrets. Because once we left, there really was no way to go back. I mean, I guess I could return to Sage City, try and find Iris and Teagen, maybe even see if I could find Haley somewhere, but I wouldn’t be the same Mel that they had known. I would be a different person.
But I welcomed the change.
I stood next to Rourke. He tilted his head, his thick lips open.
“Has this one been sold?” he asked.
I lifted it off of the mounting and found the title. I hadn’t given them names, but my mother had, on Cheyenne’s request. The sold list was on the desk in her office. I searched forEternally Fulland foundSoldnext to it,$500.
I guess the showing had worked.
“Yeah,” I called out.
When I joined him again, he was still holding it.
“Gift it to me,” he said.
For a murderer, Rourke had a unique moral code. He could murder, but he couldn’t straight-up steal a painting. He needed my permission as a way around it.
“I gift it to you,” I said.
He tucked it under his arm. “Do you want to destroy the rest?’
“Why?” I laughed. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Why not?” he asked. “It’s your art.”
He went to the office and dug through the drawers. I kept an eye on the front door, wondering when and if Cheyenne was going to return, if Beth would be in tow.
Rourke emerged with a can of black spray paint.
“Where did you find spray paint?” I asked.
“The better question is why the hell did she keep spray paint in her office?” He smirked. “Do you want to do it, or not?”
He handed me the can. I had never had the urge to protect my work. Once it was done, it was done, but I had also never deliberately destroyed any of it. I shook the can; the bead rattled inside, mixing up the solution. Armed with the can, I walked closer to a bland coastal painting. I put my finger on the nozzle. The black streak down the beachside was freeing, more exhilarating than actually painting the damn thing. I laughed, because it was unsalvageable now, but it felt more like my own painting than it had at any other time.
I marked more, leaving black streaks in smiley faces, hearts, swirls and squiggles, even a harsh outline of a tree, anything to mark my territory. When I was satisfied, I handed Rourke the can, and he did the same, a giddy grin on his face as he did it.
A group of women passed in front of the windows, but none of them glanced inside. They passed by as if there was nothing out of the ordinary inside of the gallery. What would Beth think when she saw this? Would she be worried about me? Or would she be disappointed in me?
I had to let go. I couldn’t let her opinion control me anymore.
I found a piece of stationary in Cheyenne’s office. I tucked my mother’s key to the gallery inside of the desk, then grabbed a pen.
Mom, I’m sorry I never measured up, I wrote, but that was incomplete.But I’m happier this way, I added, then I signed my name. My mother and I didn’t need a dramatic goodbye. I had used up that energy years ago, when she had cut me out of her life. If she had survived without speaking to me for years, she could do it again. It was fitting, in a way. She had left me alone, and now I was leaving her. I folded the note and put it under the computer keyboard, her name visible on the top.
The paintings were ruined now. Cheyenne was probably counting on commission. Even if she was wealthy enough to live in Rourke’s neighborhood, I still felt bad about it.
