As she sat here, musing over her designs, she was startled to hear, “Good morning.”
She looked up to see the detective, and her hopes sank once again. “I was sitting here,” she said tiredly, “trying to regain some of my verve for the day. And look who I see instead. Somebody to take away all my spirit and wreck me emotionally again.”
He sat down at the end of the settee with a hard thump. “I’m sorry,” he said.
For the first time she could hear the empathy and the pain in his voice, and she realized how much of her own frustration she’d attributed to the man, when he was just doing his job. A job that she desperately wanted him to succeed at. Tears once again formed in the corner of her eyes, and impatiently she rubbed them away.
“It’s not your fault,” she said, hating the fatigue in her voice, “but this is a never-ending nightmare. I’m a creative person, and it’s hard for me to look at a huge painting I have to do and to get in the mood, where I get to paint what’s on my design, when instead all I want to do is throw up blacks and reds and pour out my pain and my anger and rail against my loss.” He stared at her, and such an odd look came into his eyes that she realized she probably came across as completely crazy. “I am not going nuts,” she said crossly.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean for you to feel that way at all. Grief is something that we all have to process in our own way. And, if throwing blacks and reds on a canvas does it for you, then maybe that’s what you need to do.”
She studied him thoughtfully for a long moment. “You know something? That may not be a bad idea. Maybe when I get home, I’ll give it a try.”
“You have a studio at home?”
The corner of her mouth tilted up. “Detective, this is what I do. I live for my art,” she said. “I have a room that doesn’t get to be cleaned because it’s got paint on the floor and paint on the walls. It’s a studio, my studio. I own the space, and, if I ever want to sell my apartment, I’ll have to get the entire place repainted. But it’s my creative chaos, and I need that as much as my soul needs it.” She watched his own energy contract and bend at her words, yet it still leaned toward her. She studied him curiously. “Every time I say soul, it bothers you. Why is that? Have you any energy experiences? Psychic experiences? Strong religious leanings you feel I’m stepping on?”
“No religious leanings, and no,” he said, “I’ve never had a psychic experience. Not personally,” he clarified quickly, “but—” He took a deep breath. “A couple odd occurrences in my life made me wonder if more was out there than I knew about.”
She leaned forward. “I’ve wondered that too, and Elena did as well. It was our connection that came from one of those. So, if you can imagine what it’s like to lose something that has been inside your space for a long time, that’s how the loss of Elena is for me.”
His gaze was steady. “Have you ever worked with psychics?”
“I know of a few energy workers,” she clarified. “And I’ve had readings done a couple times,” she admitted. “Dr. Maddy was not my first venture into woo-woo land.”
He nodded slowly.
“What about you?”
He shrugged. “In the world I’m in, we do have some psychics we work with every once in a while.”
Her gaze lit up. “That’s Maddy’s friend, isn’t it? Stefan?”
“Stefan Kronos, yes. I’ve heard their names linked a couple times.”
“But not romantically,” she said. “They both have partners.” She stared absently out at the world, wondering what it would take for her to have a partner. Or did she just not give a shit anymore.
“Have you seen any of his paintings?”
“I haven’t gone looking,” she said, “but I do know a couple other people in his sphere that paint.”
“Right. Isn’t that Ronin?” he said thoughtfully. “I thought I saw an installation or a huge painting like yours.”
She nodded and smiled. “Absolutely. And his artwork is really incredible.”
“And always uses his wife as his model, I believe.”
Her smile lit up. “Isn’t that something?”
“Does that make you feel good or bad?”
“Good.” Her joy dimmed somewhat, and she glared at him. “That’s the problem with your mind,” she said, “you have to analyze everything.”
“It’s a problem that comes with being a detective,” he said, “because think about it. We have to do what we have to do in order to solve problems, and one of those is to ask a million questions that upset people. I don’t mean to upset people, but I have no other option.”
She nodded and smiled. “What do those two people have to do with me?”
“Because I suspect something is slightly different about your work,” he said. “Something … special. It’s as if lit from inside …”
Inside her something froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said smoothly, so not ready for the discussion as to why her work lit up.
“See? You just changed right there,” he said. “You’re not a liar. You’re somebody who believes firmly in the truth in your own hand, but that hand is through the expression of your art. You don’t want to explain how you do it though.”
“Very perceptive,” she said, sounding slightly sarcastic, hoping she could throw him off.
He shook his head
