Page 57 (2/2)

Frantically, I scrolled up through the previous eone We were still standing in that saust, his attention was fixed raptly on the artist’s face as he spoke His own voice had grown quieter

I took a look aroundmore traditionally than the others we’d seen--at least, his canvases weren’t flashing neon lights or cut up into tiny strips They were portraits Each had a dark head, looking to the side, the expression obscured All charcoals and grays, with flashes of eggshell white What the paintings depicted was different fros we’d seen, but they all had a definite siust

The artist didn’t look like Nathaniel Ziegler He didn’t look like Hadrian Moriarty, either, and hteen

When he saw er up to the artist "More vodka?" he asked "Then we’ll come back"

I had to keep a lid on ust Moriarty kidnapped you, a voice in ht he was on your side How could you be so stupid?

"August," I hissed outside the studio’s entrance, but he shook his head tightly Later, he mouthed As ound our way back to the table of drinks, I wondered if Holmes was even here Maybe she’d stolen herself away to a coffee shop so scales on her violin, having shaken off our fight right after it happened Maybe she’d done the sane thing, for once, and called soh who, I didn’t know

No I needed to focus on the now I felt like she was here somewhere, and from the look on his face, he felt it, too "Bathroom," he said, and pointed to a door far across the cut-up room "Since you asked"

I nodded We’d split up, then Trust him for now, I reminded myself You’ll have to deal with this later I crept slowly toward the restroolances down the aisles There were voices, everywhere voices, but I didn’t hear Hol I reed herself under my father’s porch and taken the rest of her stash all at once, sitting in the cold dirt like a blank-faced doll It’d been like pulling teeth to get her to talk, until she opened herself up to spill out everything One long black flood of confession

The ateliers were fewer here, and the suspended walls held dark little dens instead Couches, and a television playing Netflix A more elaborate bar, with rack after rack of liquor bottles reaching up to the false ceiling, the wall behind it chalkboard-painted and covered in strange little sunbursts A few that were e, people dressed like artists and people wearing suits, and I wondered about those strange little open spaces, who "owned" them, if anyone, who decided who came in or went out

And still I didn’t see her anywhere, until I did<ins class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true"></ins>