Episode Six:The Shadow of Lucas
760 Words
The photo was still in my hand when Jace walked out of the bathroom.
He was toweling off his hair, wearing nothing but loose joggers, humming something low and off-key.
He stopped when he saw my face.
“What?” he asked, instantly alert. “What happened?”
I said nothing.
Just held up the envelope.
He walked over slowly, like approaching something that might explode.
When he saw the photo, his jaw tightened.
He took it from my hand, studied it, and then looked up at me.
“I don’t remember this.”
My chest hollowed.
The image wasn’t graphic. But it was clear.
Him and Lucas. Bare-chested. Too close. Tangled.
The timestamp in the bottom corner marked a date: two weeks ago.
Jace’s eyes didn’t blink.
“I swear, Ethan. I don’t remember that night. I didn’t see him. I didn’t go to him.”
“Then how—?”
“I don’t know,” he snapped, then instantly pulled back, softening. “I don’t know.”
I wanted to believe him.
More than anything.
But trust is heavy when it’s still growing roots.
We sat on the floor.
The photo between us.
Jace had gone quiet. His fingers pressed against his temple, jaw tight.
“Could it be old?” I asked, finally.
He shook his head. “The timestamp lines up with the gallery event I went to. The night I told you I stayed at the studio late.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
He cut in. “He was there. I remember seeing him across the room. We didn’t talk. Or… I didn’t think we did.”
I leaned forward. “What are you saying?”
He swallowed hard. “I think he drugged me.”
The words hit the air and shattered.
“I’ve blacked out once before. When I was with him.”
The silence between us deepened.
“You think he did it again?”
He nodded. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. I wouldn’t have gone to him. Not after everything.”
I believed him.
But belief didn’t erase the image burned into my brain.
And I hated that.
“I’m not blaming you,” I said. “I just... needed to hear it from you.”
Jace leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed.
“I’ve spent so much of my life convincing people I wasn’t crazy. That what happened to me happened. And when proof shows up—proof he controls—it makes me feel like I’m losing all over again.”
I reached for his hand.
“You’re not.”
He didn’t answer. Just squeezed once and let go.
The next morning, he didn’t paint.
He didn’t talk.
Just sat at the kitchen table, staring at the same cold coffee cup for nearly an hour.
“I can’t live like this again,” he said quietly. “Looking over my shoulder. Waiting for the next hit.”
“You’re not alone this time.”
He looked at me.
“I want to believe that.”
“You can.”
A long pause.
“I might go to the police,” he said. “Even if it doesn’t do anything. I need it on record.”
I nodded. “I’ll go with you.”
That night, I lay awake beside him.
He was curled toward the wall.
I wanted to hold him, but didn’t.
Because some nights, closeness doesn’t fix silence.
The next day, he made the call.
Reported the incident.
Gave them what he remembered. Showed them the photo. Shared the previous messages Lucas had sent.
The detective took it seriously.
Said they’d look into it. But warned the case would be difficult.
“It always is,” Jace muttered as we walked out.
A few days passed without any messages.
No notes.
No photos.
No new threats.
And slowly, Jace began to paint again.
The first one was dark. Sharp. Angry.
But the second had color. Just a little.
Blues. Sunlight at the edge of shadows.
He didn’t title it.
But I knew what it meant.
---
Then, one night, as I closed the bedroom window, I caught a glimpse of a figure across the street.
Just standing there.
Still.
Watching.
I stared, frozen.
He didn’t move.
And then—
He raised his hand.
Waved once.
And disappeared into the alley.
I didn’t tell Jace what I saw.
Not yet.
Because if Lucas was watching…
It meant the silence was over.
And the storm was about to start again.
- Writer
