Chapter 12: The Attic

The line went dead.

Scott stared at the phone in the cup holder.

"I was not in that room," I said.

"I know."

"I was asleep in my dorm. I had a fever."

"Siobhan, I know."

"They'll say anything."

"He will," Scott said. "He's frightened. A man like that only threatens when he's frightened."

He put the car in gear.

We drove the rest of the way home without speaking, his hand on my knee the whole time.

At the townhouse he took off his coat and hung it in the hall.

Then he stood looking up the stairwell toward the attic.

"Show me how you do it," he said.

"It's three in the morning."

"I don't care."

"You want me to paint?"

"I want to watch my wife do the thing she's best at in the world."

My heart did something strange.

I climbed the stairs in front of him.

In the attic I turned on the work lamps and pulled the white canvas off its easel.

It was a big blank six feet tall.

I set out my palette on the stained table.

Ultramarine, cadmium, burnt umber, a little white.

I stood in front of the blankness with my hand shaking.

"I haven't done it with anyone in the room," I said. "Not in seven years."

"I'll be quiet."

"You can't be quiet. You're too big."

"I'll try."

He sat on the floor with his back against the wall and his long legs stretched out.

He folded his arms and looked at me.

I let out one long breath, picked up the brush and began.

It came the way it always came.

Slow at first, a wash of blue across the bottom for the street.

Then the wall, the brick, the cold.

The window.

I felt him watching.

I felt the heat of it on the back of my neck, and I stopped being afraid.

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