The Reapers Artist

He should have killed me. I keep telling myself that as I sit on the cold marble floor of his penthouse, my back pressed against a wall that probably costs more than my entire apartment. He should have killed me. He is going to kill me. Any minute now. "Drink this." I flinch so hard my head cracks against the wall. He is standing over me with a glass of water. His gray eyes are completely empty. No anger. No pity. Just nothing. "I said drink." My hands are shaking too much to take the glass. He notices. Of course he notices. He crouches down in front of me, and I press myself harder into the wall like I can disappear into it. "Please." My voice comes out like a whisper. Like a child. "Please don't hurt me." He just looks at me. His face is beautiful in a way that makes it worse. Sharp cheekbones. Dark hair falling across his forehead. Perfectly tailored suit that probably costs more than my entire life. He is the most terrifying thing I have ever seen. "I'm not going to hurt you." "You just killed someone." "Yes." He says it like I just told him it was raining outside. "I did." I start crying. I cannot help it. The tears come hot and fast down my cheeks, and I hate myself for it. I hate that he is watching me fall apart and feeling nothing. "I have water in my apartment. I have a cat. She is going to starve if I don't feed her tomorrow morning." "That is the most pathetic attempt at emotional manipulation I have ever heard." "Please. Please let me go. I won't tell anyone. I saw nothing. I was working in the back office. I didn't hear anything. I didn't see anything." He tilts his head. Something flickers in his eyes. Curiosity, maybe. Like I am a puzzle he cannot quite solve. "You were restoring a painting." I blink. The tears keep falling. "What?" "The painting in the back office. Seventeenth century. Dutch landscape. You were working on it." "How do you know that?" "I've been watching you for three months." My blood turns to ice. The room tilts around me. I think I might throw up. "Three months." "Every Tuesday and Thursday. You stay late. You work with your tongue sticking out slightly when you're concentrating. You talk to the paintings sometimes." "I don't." "You do. You tell them they are beautiful and that you are going to fix them. It would be endearing if it wasn't so depressing." I stare at him. The tears are still coming but they are silent now. I don't even realize I'm crying anymore. "You've been stalking me." "I've been observing you. There's a difference." "You killed a man in my workplace." "He was going to kill me first." "I don't care." "You should care." He leans closer. His voice drops to something lower, something almost intimate. "You should care about who survives in this world, Elara. It matters." I freeze. "How do you know my name?" "Elara Vance. Twenty-seven years old. Art restorer at Sterling Gallery for four years. Graduated top of your class from NYU. Your father is Richard Vance, the art critic. He calls you every Sunday, and you lie to him about being happy." I cannot breathe. The walls are closing in. I am going to die here, in this gorgeous penthouse, far from my tiny apartment with my cat who will definitely starve because no one is coming to check on me. "How do you know all of that?" "It is my job to know things." He stands up. He walks across the room and sets the glass of water on a table. "I am not going to kill you, Elara." "You said that already. It's a lie." "It is not a lie." "Then why am I here?" He turns back to me. For the first time, something shifts in his expression. Something that looks almost like pain. It disappears so fast I wonder if I imagined it. "Because you have something I need." "My kidneys? My liver? Are you selling my organs?" He laughs. It's a strange sound, like he doesn't do it often. Like the muscles in his face are rusty. "No. I don't want your organs." "Then what?" "That painting you were working on. The landscape. You were about to restore a water stain near the bottom left corner." I don't respond. I have no idea where this is going. "I need you to restore something for me." "You're holding me hostage for art restoration?" "It's not just art. It's a painting that belongs to me. It was stolen. I got it back. It needs to be restored properly." "You could have asked." "Would you have come willingly?" I open my mouth. I close it again. He's right. If this man had walked into my gallery and asked me to come to his penthouse, I would have called the police. "I'll pay you. I will pay you five times what Sterling pays you. You will have a studio here. You'll be comfortable. You just have to finish the restoration." "So I'm a prisoner." "You're a guest." "I don't want to be your guest." "I understand." He walks toward me again. The soft click of his shoes on the marble floor echoes through the silence. He stops right in front of me and crouches down again. "I understand you don't want to be here. I understand you're terrified. I understand every cell in your body is screaming for you to run. But here is the truth." "The truth." "You are going to stay here until the restoration is done. That is not negotiable. You can make this difficult. You can scream. You can try to break things. You can refuse to eat. It won't change anything. You'll still be here. The only difference is how much you'll suffer in the process." I am shaking so hard my teeth are chattering. I cannot stop it. The cold is seeping into my bones. Or maybe it is fear. I don't know anymore. "What happens after I finish the restoration?" "Then I let you go." "That's a lie." "It's not." "You're a killer. You murdered someone right in front of me. You expect me to believe you'll let me walk out of here alive?" He is quiet for a long moment. His gray eyes study my face. I feel exposed, like he can see into every corner of my soul. "No," he says finally. "I don't expect you to believe it. I expect you to do the work because you have no other choice. And when it's done, I expect you to be smart enough not to tell anyone what happened here." "You're just going to let me go." "Yes." "And if I tell the police?" "Then I'll kill you." Simple. Direct. No heat. No anger. Just a fact. Like telling me the sky is blue or water is wet. I swallow hard. My throat feels like sandpaper. "Can I call my boss? He'll notice I'm gone." "No." "My father. He calls every Sunday. He'll call the police if I don't answer." "I'll handle your father." "My cat. I have to feed my cat." "Your cat will be picked up by a neighbor tomorrow morning. I've already arranged it." I stare at him. The world keeps tilting. Nothing makes sense anymore. "You arranged it?" "I told you. I've been watching you for three months. I know your neighbor, Mrs. Chen. I know she feeds strays in the alley. I slipped a note under her door with instructions." "You slipped a note under her door." "Yes." "How did you get into my building?" He doesn't answer. He just looks at me with those empty eyes. The silence is worse than anything he could say. "What's your name?" I ask suddenly. "Who are you?" He stands up again. His shadow falls over me, blocking out the light from the floor to ceiling windows behind him. "You can call me Julian." "Julian what?" "Just Julian." "Julian what? I need to know who I'm dealing with." "No, you don't. You don't need to know anything about me. You just need to finish the restoration." "And if I refuse?" I see it before he answers. The tension in his shoulders. The hard set of his jaw. The way his eyes go from empty to something darker, something that looks almost like hunger. "Then I'll show you exactly what happened to the man you saw me kill. I won't enjoy it. But I won't hesitate either." My stomach lurches. I taste bile in the back of my throat. "I'll do it." "Good." "I'll do the restoration. I'll finish it. But you stay away from me. You don't come near me. You don't watch me work." "It's my penthouse." "I don't care. I'm a professional. I can't concentrate when you're standing over me. You stay away, and I'll finish faster." He is quiet for a moment. The silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. "Fine." "Fine?" "I'll stay away. You have a room next to the studio. Food will be provided. If you need anything, tell Celine." "Who's Celine?" "My housekeeper. She's old. She's harmless. Don't try to use her to escape. She has no idea what I do. She'll just call me the minute you step out of line." I nod. My head feels heavy. I'm so tired. I just want to close my eyes and wake up in my own bed. "One more thing." I look up at him. His face is unreadable again. The mask is back. "If you try to run, I'll find you. I'll always find you. And when I do, I won't make it quick. Do you understand?" "I understand." "Good." He turns and walks toward the door. "I have your bags. The painting is in the studio. Get some rest. You start tomorrow." The door closes behind him with a soft click. I am alone. And I am never going to get out of here. I am never going to see my cat again. I am never going to hear my father's voice on a Sunday. I am never going to touch another painting that doesn't belong to Julian. The tears start again. I press my face into my knees and let them come. Sobs wrack my body. I have never been this scared. I have never been this alone. I have never hated anyone the way I hate him. But underneath the hate, underneath the terror, underneath all of it, there is something else. There is the way he said my name. Like it was important. Like it meant something. There is the way he looked at me before he left. Like I was the first beautiful thing he'd seen in years. And there is the worst part. The part I will never admit to anyone, not even myself. I believe him. I believe he won't hurt me. I believe he'll let me go when this is over. And I don't know why that terrifies me even more.