man who is my only hope for living, was James’s best hope, lives 1 8 4
Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
thirty minutes away. And of course he would. He’d want to be close to the majority of his creations.
“James is dead,” I say, and I hate the words. I hate them, and I hate Dr. Richard Sharp.
“I’ll drive you, okay?” Her voice is soft, and I nod because I don’t trust myself to drive. How can I drive if I rip the fucking steering wheel off because I’m so . . . ready to rip his fucking heart out? Dr. Richard Sharp. I swear I could rip out his heart, but first I have to know if he has one.
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Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
Dr. Sharp’s condo is in the center of the city. The five-story building, made of sandstone, used to be a high school back in the early 1900s. I remember watching the news with Dad and hearing an architect talking about how the place was being renovated into upscale condos. I remember because I thought, what rich person would want to live in an old high school?
But they’ve done a great job. The large windows of sectioned squares have been replaced with large plates of glass. The cement stairs students used to climb are gone, having been replaced by a smooth sidewalk lined with snapdragons and marigolds. At the end of it is a tinted glass door that only slides open for those who know the code to the keypad beside it.
I have the code. I look back at Cami, sitting in her truck. I want her to come with me. I need her to, but I’m to go alone.
That’s the deal. Dr. Richard Sharp will talk only to me.
Inside the door, I expect to see a lobby, but there isn’t one.
There’s no desk, no sofa or chairs. On one wall is a row of mail compartments. Each is the size of a large shoe box. On the other side is an elevator. I’m about to press the Up button when 1 8 6
Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
it makes that chiming sound and a woman walks out. She looks like the kind of woman who would live in a high-dollar condo. She’s thin with pale yellow hair cut stylishly around her slightly wrinkled face. She looks at me, gives me an awkward smile, and then hurries toward the front door.
I step into the elevator, glance down at the torn sheet of notebook paper, and press the button for the fifth floor.
The elevator opens into a wide corridor with cream-colored carpet that sinks with every step. The walls and the ceiling are the same color as the carpet, giving the feeling of walking through a squared tunnel. There is only one door at the end of the corridor, and beside it is a security pad. I punch in another number. A light flashes from red to green. I turn the doorknob.
The thick carpet ends in the hallway. The floor of the apartment is dark wood, the walls painted a deep brown. There is a portrait hanging in the entry of a young woman wearing a gold gown that matches the color of her hair. She’s holding a red rose, and her skin is white. She looks like a corpse, like someone’s beloved bride died, and he propped her up and quickly painted her before decay marred her beauty.
In the living room is an antique sofa, framed in ornate, gold-painted wood. Thick burgundy curtains block out the morning sun. A floor lamp in the shape of a half-naked woman leans over the sofa. The light is turned on but barely gives off more than a whisper of a glow. The coffee table is marble, and there are no magazines or television remotes on it. On the other side are two chairs with straight oval backs upholstered in tightly pulled fabrics that look like medieval tapestries.
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Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
A woman, probably my mom’s age, comes out of the kitchen.
She’s wearing beige scrubs.
“He’s very tired, so I don’t want you staying long.” Her full face is a mixture of concern and annoyance.
“Is something wrong with him?” I ask. My heart literally skips a beat like it’s practicing for when it will stop and never start again.
She scoffs at my ignorance, but then her eyes