“Malibu,” said Oppenheimer, “would you care to hear some music?”
Malibu stumbled toward the easel, her hand wrapped around the back of her thigh. The paint and her other supplies were still where she’d left them.
“Are there more canvases?” she asked.
“I told you. I can’t see.”
She scanned the room and spotted a blank canvas leaning against the back wall. She walked to it, dragging her leg, blood seeping through her fingers, and carried the canvas back to the easel, where she lifted it with both hands and slotted it into place. Some of the blood that was on her hand stuck to the canvas, which definitely would add to the effect she was hoping to create.
That b***h deserved to die.
That b***h deserved to die.“Which one?” Malibu said.
“You sound distressed,” Oppenheim said.
“How can he
