Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Kylie’s boyfriend has been taken into custody. Apparently, evidence is stacking up against him. And due to my upbringing, I wonder if they’re facts or if someone is paying money to make the issue go away.
Nothing in this world is what it seems anymore.
The same night Kylie was murdered, the body of the man with the green mohawk who’d bumped into Ivy was found at Lucy’s. The body had been removed from the alley so quickly that I doubt anyone saw it, but the question remained among the group as to who did it. It could literally be anyone. And much to Eli’s disgust, the cameras in the alley had been tampered with.
It’s all a bit of a fucking mess right now. And for the first time in a long time, I feel stifled creatively. Maybe it’s because my muse has been relatively silent. The photo of Kylie’s body was sent to my burner phone, but I couldn’t find the beauty in her death. It was ugly. The worst.
I keep all of this to myself, and I feel like I’m slowly shutting down. I’ve never felt this looming darkness. Like I don’t want to eat or drink. Even if I lock myself in my studio, it feels pointless.
I don’t go to the café because I’m adamant about not seeing Braxton Hero. I avoid it at all costs. Suddenly, the games we’ve playing don’t feel so fun. I just hurt, and my hatred for him for somehow imprinting this sickness within me, this longing that’s grounded without rationality, only festers.
I have cameras installed out front of my studio, so I know when he shows up. And he comes frequently. When he does, I make sure to stay inside. Some nights, I even sleep in the studio, just so I don’t run the risk of him intercepting me. I know I should tell my father or, at the very least, Hawke. But I’m determined to handle this on my own. Every storm has to blow over eventually, and when it does… I’ll finally strike.
I go to London for a week and try to clear my head. When I return, my mother happens to be home. We decide to watch a few shows together, and it’s nice.
I stopped looking for apartments when the whole Kylie thing happened. It’s not that I fear for my life, but right now, the security of being under my father’s roof brings me a sense of safety and peace, even if I’m not staying here much.
My mother is biting at the tip of her nail, and I know that usually means she’s thinking of something.
“Have you seen that detective recently?” she asks.
I simply shake my head in response.
Only the sound of the TV breaks the silence.
“Does that upset you?” she questions.
I turn to face her. “Why would it? I told you there was nothing between us.” I furrow my brow as I ask, “You really didn’t tell Dad?”
She shakes her head. “No. You told me it was nothing serious.” I didn’t say that word for word, but I don’t correct her and assure her once again it was nothing.
I don’t like lying to her, but I can’t burden her with this trouble I’ve gotten myself into. Her art is so beautiful, and mine is so ugly. My soul is tarnished in a way I don’t think a mother would truly be able to accept.
Braxton hasn’t sent back the statues a second time. I was rattled when he returned them to me the first time. If even he didn’t want to look at them, why would anyone else? That is a strange sentiment to have, considering he’s not even a critic in the industry.
I don’t know how and why everything keeps coming back to him. I feel like I’m stuck in quicksand, and I can’t get out.
Mom brushes the hair behind my ear as she says, “Hope, you know if you ever have something to tell me, you can open up to me, right? You’re my daughter, and I love you unconditionally.”
I stare into her eyes. What does she see right now? How does she view me? Can she see every tainted part of me? I shrivel at the thought. Hers is a love I can absolutely not live without.
“I know. I’m just tired, that’s all.” Another lie slips off my tongue, and I can tell by her wounded expression that she knows it, too. But better for her be hurt by a little white lie than the truth.
I can’t sleep, so I get my keys and drive to the studio. I wait in the elevator, wrapping my arms around myself and shivering from the chill of the night. I need to lose myself in creating something in order to push all of these thoughts away.
I step out of the elevator and then come to a complete stop. Braxton is sitting beside the door, his head leaning against it with his eyes closed. He’s wrapped up in a long trench coat that looks way too good on him and a beanie.