But I kept my head high, stared straight back at him, and said, “We’ll be done? Fine. I’ll paint for you these two months—and after that, we’re even.”
It wasn’t such a bad deal.
A fair trade, almost.
He gave a cold nod. “That’s more like it. That’s the sister I know.”
Just then, his phone rang. He answered, and a sticky-sweet female voice came through the line.
“Darell, when are you coming back? I cooked a whole meal just for you. I even made your favorite—spicy crawfish. But I burned my hand in the process. You’ve been gone forever just to grab your ID. I miss you.”
Darell’s cold expression melted instantly, his voice tender. “I’m already on my way back, baby. Why didn’t you tell me you got hurt? I’ll take you to the hospital as soon as I get home.”
He didn’t spare me a glance as he walked out, and the door to the basement clicked shut—and locked.
There were no windows.
Facing a blank canvas, I picked up the brush, and the first stroke landed with a hollow sound.
That night, I tore up painting after painting, until the tears ran out and all I felt was empty.
Regina's POV
I don’t even remember when I closed my eyes. Maybe I passed out as the illness had gotten that bad.