Wallflower Ink

Chapter 11

·Merri ·

I look at the clock on the wall: one forty seven. I heave a quiet sigh and shake my head. I rise from the bar then set about putting the food away. It hadn't been a big meal, but I had cooked and been waiting for Jace to come in so I can clean up before going to bed.

But he's late, much later than I had expected him to be. Granted, he had not given me a timetable--and I have no right to expect one--but is it wrong to want a heads up? Given our arrangement, is that too much to ask? I'm not sure.

Maybe I should bring it up when he finally decides to make an appearance, but I will have to tread very carefully there. I by no means am in the position to give ultimatums--not that that is my intent--and I want to be damned sure that's not the impression I give Jace when I speak to him.

By the time I finish cleaning up the meager meal I'd prepared, two o'clock has come and gone. I push a strand of hair from my forehead then look around the room. It is pristine, almost sterile. The barren white walls gleam brightly, and I shudder.

Memories try to crowd in of another room, one whose bright walls had been subdued only by the tragedy they'd housed. I turn off the kitchen light, letting my mind wander down that dark corridor in my mind, the one that will either lead to restless sleep or none at all.

As I leave the kitchen and make my way through the dark house, I pause at the guest room. I flip on the light, feeling only slightly guilty by my intrusion of Jace's privacy. From the threshold I glance about the room that is only barely more habitable than my own.

In anticipation of his acceptance of my offer, I had left the bed here. And though this room is more furnished than my own, it still brings to mind a monk's sleeping quarters in a moninstary. The bedding is plain, as are the curtains: mocha against cream, a bland contrast with nothing else to break the starkness of the walls. He'd said it was fine when I'd shown it to him, but he'd not hidden well the curiosity in his eyes.

I can imagine what must be going through his mind, because it has often gone through my own. Am I crazy, or at the very least unstable? Why else would I choose to live the way I do now? There is nothing personalizing here--not in any room of the house, not even the one I'd chosen to keep furnished for Jace, albeit sparsely.

There are no pictures, no nick-knacks, nothing noteworthy of any kind. Only someone truly lacking in some degree of mental efficiency would choose this sort of life. And if that's what he thinks about me, is he far from the truth?

I frown at the question, then shake my head. It doesn't matter what Jace Declan thinks of me--or anyone else, for that matter. True or not, this is my new reality. Without the creature comforts of my former life I've been left with my memories, and they have helped me to focus on my goal.

There are things I need to do and without the added distractions I've removed from my life I've found the time and courage to see them through to the end. Soon Jace will begin his work, and in private I will continue with my own.

Heaving a quiet sigh, I turn the light off then turn and head back down the hall to my own room.

Closing the door softly behind myself, I cross to the closet and pull out the box I brought home from my office. Moving aside the worthless certificates in their ornate frames, I only take out the things that matter anymore: a five by seven photograph of Joseph Grider, and the worn out list written so painstakingly in his hand.