DAMIEN
.
.
I stood before the easel, brush in hand, lost in the colors and textures on the canvas.
Painting.
It was one of the few things that quieted the relentless noise in my head, that allowed a different kind of focus.
Then, the door opened.
Not barged in, not knocked, but opened.
Gerald.
He didn’t wait for an invitation, which usually would have annoyed the hell out of me, but something in his expression stopped the immediate irritation.
He looked rattled.
Unsettled.
Gerald didn’t look rattled.
He walked in while the sound of his steps felt so fast, his usual controlled demeanor fractured around the edges.
He stopped a few feet away, his eyes wide, fixed on mine.
“Damien,” he said, his voice strained. “It’s Leila.”
My hand stilled on the canvas.
My focu
