Start to Finish by Pamela A. Williams

Author:Pamela A. Williams [Williams, Pamela A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: NineStar Press, LGBTQIA+, College, artist, law enforcement, murder, disabilities, reunited
Publisher: NineStar Press, LLC
Published: 2020-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

The rest of the weekend was a blur of just trying to stay busy. I avoided the mess of artwork in the kitchen by avoiding the kitchen. I stretched canvases. I re-primed old ones. I ate out. I went down to Rita’s on Sunday morning so she wouldn’t have to sit among the stacks of Thomas’s drawings that I wanted to ignore. I let two phone calls from Jake go to voice mail, which he did not use. Fuck him. I didn’t tell Rita what had happened, only that I was no longer a suspect.

Thankfully, Monday did finally come, and I could throw myself back into the deadening world of academia, trying to enjoy teaching my classes. I didn’t see Pearson. Jen had no reports outside of a Pearson/Katya argument, nothing new there. There were no signs of Justin. I hadn’t decided what to do with the infamous portfolio. Two things I cannot do is trash or destroy art or books. It’s not in my constitution, mealy though it may be. I’d have to keep it or find it a home. I wondered if Pearson knew I had it. I should have asked Ransom while I had him on the phone. It was undoubtedly a secret for someone, living or dead. I don’t want other people’s morbid secrets cluttering up my life. I’ve enough of my own.

I drank. I ate. I slept. I dreamed… I dreamed Jake was taking me in his mouth, and I was getting close. That tender ache of prerelease so corporeal. I woke with a painful erection that I could only finish off with a lump of regret in my throat.

The week crept by. I still wanted to find out more about Thomas, but I’d run out of ideas. Pearson was definitely off the resource list. I wondered if some of the illustration students knew Thomas; maybe I’d ask Hanna if she’d mind asking around in her classes. Would the request be pushing boundaries? Perhaps, but I wasn’t getting information anywhere else. And, for me, a question asked needed an answer. I knew now that even when I wanted to let it go, I couldn’t. The police may get the murderer, but I wanted the story. Not just motive, opportunity, blah, blah, blah, but what got him there. Police don’t care about such things outside of how it informs the end. I left a message on Hanna’s voice mail.

Thursday, I drove to work. My leg hurt, I felt discouraged, I was lonely but didn’t want to see anyone. I taught my class. Bought takeout and headed home. I was letting myself in the back door, struggling with the lock and the takeout bag. As the door swung open, I caught a glimpse of a quick movement behind me, a reflection in the window.

*

I was in a hospital. I had a vague and distant recollection of a ride. I hadn’t opened my eyes due to a crushing headache, but I knew where I was. The noises,

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