He left, leaving behind a trail of worry and something else-a warm, almost scalding confession. I stayed by the window, my fingers digging into the sill until my nails were white. The fan lay on the table, the bone plates gleaming like teeth in the candlelight. Sardanapal. A king who watches the destruction of everything he loved. A beautiful, carefully planned disaster.
George wasn't just threatening. He was putting on a play. And assigned us to roles. Passive victims. The scenery in his bloody vaudeville.
"The painting came off the wall," I told Travis. And it was true. But the painting that came down from the wall is a ghost. Something that belongs neither to the world of the living nor to the world of the canvas. I felt that way. A ghost in his own home.
I went to the fan and picked
