“I know,” he eventually says.
“What?”
“Lawrence called me.”
My mouth falls open, my brain unable to compute this. Why on earth would Lawrence do that? What was he hoping to achieve? And, more worryingly, what else did he tell my ex? “He had no right to do that.”
“He’s worried about you.”
That statement tells me all I need to know. Lawrence has shared more than he should, which should have been nothing at all. “It’s none of his business, and it’s definitely none of yours.” I quickly hang up before I say anything else, something I might regret. “Damn you, Lawrence,” I mutter, hammering out a text message to my uncle, telling him how pissed off I am with him. I hit send and toss my cell on the couch, before marching to the kitchen and finding a glass. I fill it with water and drink it all, slamming it down and breathing through my rage. I literally feel like the world is against me.
Paint.
I rush up to James’s dressing room and rummage through his drawers to find something I can throw on, something that he won’t mind getting soiled. I spot a clothes hamper in the corner and riffle through, dragging out a T-shirt and some shorts. I pull the T-shirt on and bend to get the shorts on.
Something catches my eye.
I still and slowly lower to my knees, peeking under the snuggle chair in the center of the room. It’s shiny, partly concealed by a shadow. “What the hell?” I murmur. I can’t be seeing right.
I instinctively look behind me to check I’m alone, before covering my hand with the shorts and carefully pulling it out from beneath the chair. A 9mm. A shell casing.
My mind explodes, and I drop it like it’s a grenade, panic grabbing me. I quickly shove it back where I found it, getting up and facing the room, glancing around. I breathe deeply, in and out, trying to untangle my head, looking at the ceiling, the walls, searching for cameras. They’re hidden. How does a shell casing get into a room this small? Who fired the gun and at whom? Why—
Paint.
I clumsily pull on the shorts and run to James’s office as I hoist in the waist, setting up the ladder and mixing the white paint. I scan my work area. Climb to the top and start frantically swooping around the spotlights. Paint. Just paint.
A shell casing.
My other name.
You’re getting more than you asked for.
“Fuck!” The silence is too loud, my thoughts louder. I hurry down the ladder, rush downstairs, find my cell and my earbuds, and shove them in, returning to James’s office as I search my playlists. I find the perfect track, play it, and turn the volume up to max as I slip my buds into my ears.
Everyone You Know When The Sun Comes Up blares, and it fills my head perfectly. I climb back up the ladder, take my brush, and let the painting and music take me away. My shoulders sway. I sing along.
I forget.
Just for a moment. Just for now.
I lose myself, cutting in around the remaining spots, working my way closer to the door, not bothering to get down from the ladder to move it, but simply shifting my weight to cock it onto one leg and effectively walking it across the room, holding the ladder with one hand and the paint and brush in the other. The tracks shuffle, each one like it could have been perfectly selected to consume my senses.
By the time I’ve made it to the other side of the room to the door, I’m forced to get off the ladder to get to the final spotlight. I push the door closed, negotiating the ladder to sit square in front of it, and climb back up.
My brush doesn’t even make it to the ceiling again. The door flies open, smacking the side of my ladder. “Fuck!” I yell, not able to hear myself, wobbling precariously, trying to regain my balance. The can of paint topples, and I toss the brush aside to free a hand, wedging it into the ceiling above me in an attempt to hold myself in place. But the ladder’s already tilted too far, and before I can even think to plan my fall, I’m crashing down, the ground growing closer rapidly. I hit the floor with force.
The music is loud.
But I still hear the sound of my wrist cracking.
And the sharp flash of pain confirms it.
I hiss, and, like an idiot, push my weight into my hands on the floor to sit up, disorientated and dazed, creating more pain. “Fucking hell,” I cry, grabbing my wrist and applying pressure. I blink, forcing back the black mist that’s creeping into the sides of my vision. Shit, I think I’m going to faint.
James appears before me, crouching, panic emblazoned across his face. His mouth moves fast, and I squint, unable to figure out why I can’t hear him. The music. I reach up to my ears with my good hand in turn, pulling out the buds. He watches, confused.