"The injury's on your right wrist. If it gets worse and affects your painting, you'll be crying your eyes out again."
His voice dripped with indulgence. But every word cut straight through me.
I used to have extraordinary talent for painting.
International awards, more than I could count. Everyone said I had a brilliant future ahead of me.
But for those drug trials—for that money—
To get Austin out of prison sooner—
I let them destroy my wrist.
Now I can't even hold a brush.
And now I'm told it was all just a punishment game Austin orchestrated.
How utterly absurd.
I stayed silent the entire drive. Austin seemed nervous, filling the quiet with endless chatter.
Obviously rehearsed lines he'd pulled from the internet.
All to convince me he'd really spent three years in prison.
I listened without really hearing. When he finally stopped, I asked quietly:
"Austin."
"Did I do something wrong?"
He went completely still. His eyes reddened as he turned to look at me.
"What do you mean, Pearl? Why would you ask that?"
I suddenly remembered the last time I'd been allowed to visit.
I was so happy. I'd saved up my pocket money for ages and bought some meat to cook for him—a proper meal I'd made myself.