Page 91 of Descent

Yeah, right.

I watch as he approaches the hall leading to the gallery and the elevator.

Is he really going to leave me here alone before Hollis shows up?

I think he is.

My heart rate picks up a little, and my mind starts to race.

I could run.

Of course I could run, but my ability to run or not isn’t what keeps me trapped here. Yes, he had that file folder in his office, but even if he left the whole packet out on the desk instead of locked away, I’m sure he has copies. He said Arson had a copy of all of it, and I haven’t known him to be a liar.

“Hallie.”

His voice startles me. I already thought of him as gone, so I look back over my shoulder with a look I hope isn’t too guilty. “Yeah?”

His lips tug up and a touch of real fondness glints in his eyes. “I’m happy you’re here.”

It’s the most absurd thing in the world to feel a pinch of guilt that I was contemplating escape just a moment before he said that, but I remind myself my feelings are appropriate; his are not.

I don’t know how the hell I’ll get away from this lunatic. I can’t run, so I have to find another way. I need to make him tired of me fast.

An idea occurs to me. A fun one, but as the same time the very notion of doing it horrifies me.

My smile comes much easier as I offer one back. “Thank you,” I say, almost sweetly.

He should find that suspicious. The look he gives me tells me perhaps he does, but he doesn’t have time to stay and investigate.

Chapter Twenty Seven

Hallie

It has been a long day. A fun day. Much more fun than I expected.

I kneel on the floor of Calvin’s formerly spotless living room trying not to feel too nervous. I know he’s on his way home because Hollis told me, but Chef Ryan isn’t here yet. I was sort of hoping he would be in case Calvin walks in and gets legitimately angry.

I’m wearing a pair of work leggings and one of Calvin’s shirts, no bra underneath. My hair is messy and pulled up so it’s out of my face while I work.

I’m certain the Persian rug covering the living room floor was quite expensive because everything in Calvin’s house is expensive. Currently, I’m using it as a mess mat. Several pages of the children’s book I’m working on are laid out across the rug. I painted the backgrounds with watercolors and cut out the snowman, cabin, and tree to glue down on top. But it’s a winter story and it’s supposed to be snowing in most of the panels, so I have one final touch before they’re finished.

Beside me left thigh is a bowl full of watered down white tempera paint. I have an assortment of brushes for flicking and splattering the loose paint so it looks like fluffy snowflakes on my pictures.

If I were doing this at home, I would have used a splatter box to contain the mess.

Because I’m trying to be the biggest nuisance I possibly can be to make Calvin decide to rehome me in my own apartment, I am not. In fact, I made sure to set myself up right behind his indubitably expensive couch, ensuring maximum paint flickage on the lush material.

I feel guilty doing it. Not to him, but to the couch. Poor couch. You didn’t ask to be dragged into this.

I hear the elevator doors open.

He’s home.

My heart leaps, but I double down. I’ve already ruined the rug. Now it’s the couch’s turn.

I’m sorry, couch.

I take a deep breath, then like a child set loose with its first paint set, I begin flicking white paint all over the pictures—and the rugs, and the couch. Some even makes it off the rug and hits the floor.

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