“Yeah, he’s a special boy. Part wild serval. Don’t let it go to his head.” I flick my fingers at the cat as he looks at me, his wild eyes flashing in the fading daylight.
“Oh, right, Dad told me. I looked it up online. Way cool. Can’t wait to show Louie, he lives right down the—”
“We’ve met,” I tell him, biting my lip at the memory. “Nice kid. Should have him dropping off some popcorn soon.”
He steps closer. “So what’re you drawing?”
I flip the scratch pad around and show him.
“Whoa, that’s…that’s art, Val. Me and Savanny. Guess that’s what they mean by spitting image. You have to show Dad!” He grins so wide I almost believe it’s good.
But my cheeks flush at the thought of Flint looking it over. I can almost see those bright-blue eyes slowly assessing my work, then nodding warmly as he flashes another approving smile that could start a wildfire.
Holy hell.
“You know, it’s not quite done yet. Sort of a work in progress. Let’s keep this just between you and me until I say…okay, Bryce?”
He nods and motions like he’s zipping his lips shut, then lets the ball in his hand swing closer to the ground. Savanny sits on his haunches, recharging his feline batteries, lazily scratching at it with both paws.
I start drawing again, but my strokes aren’t as swift this time. My hand wants to draw more than what’s in front of me.
I’ve heard of automatic writing, this weird old-timely spiritual practice, but automatic drawing?
I keep going, slashing at the paper, brow furrowed, almost like I’m channeling a message from the Great Beyond.
The whole scene changes.
Rather than little Savanny playfully batting at the ball, he’s swiping now, his lips curled up in a defensive snarl. I keep drawing, faster, and my breath grows shallower with every stroke.
I’m trembling by the time it’s done.
It’s Savanny, all right, and he’s not going for the ball.
He’s swiping at Ray.
There’s more. The background I’ve drawn vaguely resembles a yacht with its plush seats surrounding a polished deck. The family yacht. I’m in the drawing too, behind Savanny, this twisted look of shock on my face, like there’s supposed to be something else behind Ray. Someone, maybe.
Crud.
I drop the notepad and look away from where it lands near my feet. Images of Ray yelling flash in my head. He’s screaming at me.
Telling me how stupid, how reckless I am.
How I’m ruining everything. All of his big, precious plans meant for King Heron. For the family.
Just like usual.
I can’t fight the instinct to press my fingers against my ears, knowing full well it’s all in my head. That’s why it doesn’t help block out anything. I can still hear him.
Yelling. Screaming. Accusing. Blaming me.
He says this was supposed to be the end of it, the thing that might save us, if only I hadn’t stowed away on board and—
Something touches my shoulder.
A man’s heavy hand. Oh, God, it’s—
“Whoa,” Flint says, sitting down beside me. “Didn’t mean to make you jump.”
I shake my head, but don’t reply. Once I’m sure the images are fading, the shouting stops. I let my hands fall away from my ears.
“Another memory?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
I nod blankly, pointing at the scratch pad on the ground. “There.”
He picks it up and studies it carefully.
“Shit, Val. You drew this?”
“I was drawing Bryce and Savanny playing, but all of a sudden…that’s what it turned into on the new page.” I look up at him, unsure how to explain it better. “I-I didn’t have to try. My hand just went to work and did the rest. How can that be? I wasn’t even thinking—I didn’t know what I was drawing until it was done.”
He flips through the previous pictures of Savanny and Bryce. Those sea glass eyes that light up his face flash, kinder and sexier than ever. “You’re one talented lady. This shit looks professional. Uh, and by shit, I mean…the shit.”
I burst out laughing, this awkward tension pouring out of me.
There’s still a tightness in my chest. “No, Flint, I don’t think so. I don’t think I draw very often. Or if I did…I doubt I’d show anyone. It just feels secret, almost. Like something I kept to myself.”
“Why?” He leans closer, his eyes searching mine. “Look, woman, I’m not about to type up a damn dissertation on Van Gogh, but this looks like it’s about to leap right off the page. Almost life-like. Why would you keep it under wraps?”
“I don’t know.” I rub my chest, where the tightness presses on my lungs in a suffocating trigger point. “It’s just this inkling I get. And by inkling, I mean more like a violent wave. Almost sickly. Like I wasn’t ever supposed to draw, or someone else would—”
“Like someone was stifling you?”
“Maybe, I don’t know.” I draw in a deep breath as the choking sensation eases.