Page 17 of There is No Devil

“Oh yes,” Sonia says quietly, her pale blue eyes fixed on mine. “He can be very generous when it suits him.”

Sonia stands up, still holding the tea that has now gone cold in her mug. She only drank half of it.

“I’ll always be grateful to Cole for everything he did for me during that time,” she says. “It was the darkest point in my life.”

She’s walking toward the door, leaving so I can get back to work.

“That’s interesting,” I say.

Sonia pauses in the doorway, looking back at me.

“What’s interesting?”

I swirl my brush through the silvery gray, loading the horsehair with pigment. “I also met Cole on my darkest day.”

Sonia’s lips curl up, her smile enigmatic.

“That’s his gift,” she says. “He knows how to choose his moment.”

I start to paint again, thick clouds of gray, just the color of car exhaust.

“By the way,” Sonia says as she departs, “I love the new composition.”

I finished mySinners and Saintsseries. There were six paintings in all, and each sold for more than the last.

Actually, seven sales occurred, because my painting of the beautiful devilhas already resold for twice its original price to Betsy Voss herself.

“That’s a very good sign,” Cole told me. “Betsy has an eye, and she doesn’t make purchases just to inflate value. She really believes it’s an investment.”

The giddy trajectory of my bank account is terrifying. I try not to look at it. The numbers seem impossible.

I hardly need to access it anyway, living at Cole’s house. I don’t need more clothes. And I’d prefer not to spend the money in case it evaporates as quickly as it came.

I do withdraw $1000 each for Frank and Joanna, who lent me money in my most desperate moments.

Cole drives me back to the old Victorian, waiting at the curb while I climb the uneven steps to the front door.

The house already looks smaller and infinitely shabbier. I feel ashamed, not of its ugliness, but that I’m now perceiving it. Judging it. I loved this house—I felt at home here.

I knock at the door like a stranger. The flutter in my stomach when Joanna answers tells me that I was hoping it would be Frank instead, or even Melody.

Her dark eyes are unsmiling. She doesn’t say hello—just waits for me to speak.

“I brought you some money,” I say awkwardly, trying to put both envelopes in her hand. “You and Frank. For the times you gave me slack …”

Joanna looks at the envelopes, unmoving.

“You always paid me back,” she says.

I don’t know how to make her take them.

Her eyes flick down to the Tesla pulled up to the curb. Cole sitting behind the wheel.

“He give you that money?” she says.

“No. I sold some paintings.”

“Congratulations.”

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