Page 12 of Don't Tell

The easel has been folded in the corner for days. I drag it open. The cheap paint is crusted on the lids, and I twist them with my teeth because my hands will not hold the cap steady. I stand in my uniform, open a tube of cadmium red, push it onto the canvas with the heel of my palm, and try to continue the painting.

Then I sing. Whatever comes out of my mouth. Just like Marguerite. She hummed a line of nothing over the dishes.

Somewhere between the red and the next color, I'm crying, and I don't stop painting. This is how I survive her — my hands move while my face leaks.

I paint until I cannot see the canvas.

The bus the next morning is full of people who slept on it. I'm not one of them. I have a piece of toast at the kitchenette that I cannot finish, and I drink water until I'm sick of it.

At 6:00 a.m., I'm at the service desk. Roger has a new sheet in his hand, ready to "or else" me into unemployment. I walk toward him slowly. It is a mistake. He has already clocked it. "Jenkins, I have a new schedule for you.”

I’m suddenly filled with a sense of dread. I think I know what’s coming.

He hands the sheet across the desk. I take it.

The sheet is one line.

Penthouse. Exclusive assignment. Until further notice.

I look up.

Roger is smiling. "The guest in the penthouse called the front desk yesterday. He was very specific. He requested you. By name. You will report to the penthouse for the remainder of his stay. You are not on any other floors. You are not on any otherrooms. He has asked, additionally, that you not be reassigned without his personal approval. You cannot be reassigned until he’s satisfied with your services."

I freeze.

Mr. Nightingale is far from being done with me.

4.Cade

There’s a scratch on my car, one I’m certain I didn’t put there. I lean down and inspect it. It’s a subtle scratch, something that won’t be noticed easily.Hmm…I consider the possibility of it being tied to the incident last night. But this is clearly a hate crime. And not a very passionate one.

Three weeks in this penthouse, and Roger Tate has called me about a misplaced room-service tray, a guest who he thought might recognize me, and a question about whether I would prefer my eggs organic. The man is insufferable. He believes playing up to me will win him some sort of prize.

Now this. No word from him about a hairline streak on a $200,000 car parked in a garage I'm paying him a small fortune to keep secure. My eyes narrow.

He also didn’t think to mention this when I spoke to him earlier. He was more than eager to assign Suzanne to me; it was almost scary. Maybe he was trying to compensate for this. He's buttering me up so I won't get suspicious when I find out what he's been hiding.

I feel along the razor-thin scratch with my fingertip. My lips press into a thin line.I have far bigger disasters than a paint nick to deal with. I get in the car.

I drive into town. The valley road is empty, except for a tractor and the early morning light. I let the silence work. Clarity has always come to me this way.

I turn on the radio. A jazz piano drifts out. My father loved jazz. You'd think that made him a gentle, patient man. But he was the exact opposite of that. Mean-spirited, loud, and distant are words used to describe Jonathan Barnes. Of course, it doesn't matter who he was. My name is Cade Nightingale after all — my mother’s name. Jonathan was just a…blip in my existence.

I shake my head and redirect my thoughts to Suzanne.Beautiful Suzanne.

The renovation team at the Pacific Heights Apartment finished the floors last week. The kitchen is two coats of paint and a stove away from being done. I should be back in San Francisco in a couple of weeks.

But I won’t be. Suzanne and I aren’t done. Far from it.

I pull into the driveway of Marisol’s office building. Her firm occupies the fifth floor of the tall glass structure. I haven’t had much reason to come here over the past few months. I should have been suspicious of the quiet.

Marisol has been my lawyer since I ventured into the art world ten years ago. We met at a business convention. She had sheer determination in her eyes when she thrust her card at me and told me I’d be needing her.

She wasn’t wrong about that.

The elevator takes me up to her office. Her assistant has not arrived yet. The coffee is already made, and when Marisol comes out to greet me, I note that every time I see her, she looks like she has been awake one hour longer than she should have.

“Mr. Nightingale.” She nods. “Can’t say I’m happy to see you here. You’ve stayed out of trouble for months. What changed?”