Page 79 of Follow Me Down

Chapter Twenty

Fallon

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“What are you doing, puppet?” Link eyes me from the kitchen as I sit on the couch, rubbing ointment over my tattoo.

“Zeke said I had to do this twice a day.”

“Yeah, for the first few days. It’s been almost a week.”

“I just wanna make sure it doesn’t scab and turn out looking all scarred and gross.”

“You’ve been on the internet, haven’t you?” He gives me a knowing look.

“Technically, we don’t have internet out here.”

“Fine. You’ve been on your cell phone again, haven’t you?”

“Maybe.” I shrug innocently.

After my father showed up, I figured there was no point in keeping my phone off. I’ve used it more and more recently, mainly to play games and browse online. I’m honestly shocked that he hasn’t suspended my service yet. Though I suspect it’s only a matter of time.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to believe everything you read on the internet?”

“I don’t think that’s true for everything. There are some really helpful tips online.”

“Uh huh.” He shuffles through the mail, stopping on one piece in particular. “Um, there’s something here for you.” He pauses, holding up the white envelope for me to see.

“Me?” My stomach instantly twists.

“Fallon Buckley. Says it right here.” He points to the address line.

“That’s weird.” I clamor to my feet and head toward the kitchen. Link hands me the envelope as I slide onto one of the bar stools.

I don’t recognize the return address. Atlanta? I think on that for a moment before it suddenly hits me. The art studio. Ripping open the envelope at record speed, I nearly fall out of my chair when I pull out a check, my eyes scanning over it several times, sure that it isn’t real.

“Well, what is it?” Link leans over the counter, trying to get a look.

“It’s a check,” I say, still in shock. “A check for eight thousand dollars.” I look up at him, my eyes wide.

“For what?” He crosses around the counter and looks over my shoulder.

“My painting,” I say in disbelief. “It sold for eight thousand dollars.”

“There’s a note.” He tugs the index style card from behind the check out of my hand. “It’s from the owner of the gallery.”

“What’s it say?”

“He’s requesting more pieces.”

“He’s what?” I take the card from him.

“He wants you to send him more art.” He points to the card.

“But, but,” I stutter. “That can’t be right.”

“What can’t be right?” Titus appears from the hallway, his hair still wet from the shower.

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