The Finished Masterpiece Boxed Set - Pepper Winters Page 0,35

none that sounded, looked, or came close to the one I knew.

Strange but not really.

Gil had never been one for company.

Topping up my mug, I tried another angle.

Gil might not use Facebook personally, but I had no doubt he’d use it for business.

Total Trickery.

The second I pressed enter, his page popped up, complete with fifty thousand likes, hundreds of comments on his photos, and an overall gush fest on his talent.

For a while, I lost myself in the haze of colour and creation, studying the girls he’d painted, the animals he’d brought to life on their bodies, the landscapes he’d painstakingly used to camouflage human flesh.

Not one image was subpar.

And not one image showed it was Gil painting.

In each one, he kept his back to the camera, his black hoodie obscuring his face and messy hair, turning him nameless—a god of pigment and nothing more.

There was no mention of his biography, where he learned to paint, or his accolades or aspirations. He was as incognito online as he was in his photos; no hint he was the virtuoso that conjured such beauty.

There was also no photo of me from today.

Why?

I clicked on the little message icon, tensing as the bubble popped up to send him a note.

What the hell are you doing, O?

I honestly couldn’t answer that.

The entire time I’d been in the supermarket, I’d flip-flopped over being so grateful for the fat wad of money in my purse and so annoyed at it. No matter what I did, I couldn’t stop thinking about Gil.

Gil.

Gil.

I needed to talk to him.

I needed to be around him, to be near him, to look into his eyes and tear his secrets out one by one.

My fingers hovered on the keyboard. Opening sentences flew behind my eyes.

Gil, I miss you.

Gil, you paid me way too much.

Gil, what are you hiding?

I slouched.

An emotionless message would never work. He’d just ignore me, block, me, or never even see it. A conversation with him needed to be face to face, so he couldn’t hide what he battled.

With another sip of wine, I left Gil’s page and navigated to another man’s profile.

A man I’d kissed in my youth after another broke my heart.

Justin Miller’s Facebook was littered with after work drinks, pretty girls taking selfies with him, and a confident, friendly man who seemed successful.

I was happy for him.

Glad he hadn’t messed up his dreams like I had.

With liquid courage and a flush of excess energy, I clicked on a new message bubble.

Gil consumed me.

I needed a distraction.

Olin Moss: Hey, Justin. It was nice to see you at Gil’s last night. I...

My fingers paused, searching for something appropriate. I hadn’t planned to write. I had no script to follow.

Another sip of wine, and I added:

Olin Moss: I wanted to thank you for standing up for me and encouraging Gil to use me as a canvas. He finished the design today. It was amazing to be part of his process.

I chewed my cheek in worry.

What am I doing?

Justin probably didn’t want to hear from me. There was a reason school friends drifted apart—especially exes.

I’d been mean to him in the end. Shattered beyond repair when Gil just vanished. I hadn’t been able to keep up the pretend anymore—couldn’t let Justin try to help me when I no longer wanted to be helped.

Dance had been the only thing that’d granted any peace.

I clicked on the icon to add to my text. To tell him how grateful I was for his help in the past. How stupid I’d been to turn that help away.

But a chime sounded, delivering his reply.

Justin Miller: Hey, O! Great to hear from you. He wasn’t too much of a brooding artist, I hope.

I smiled.

Olin Moss: No, he was perfectly professional.

Justin Miller: I’m glad. Do you have to go back tomorrow to finish?

Olin Moss: No. All done.

And banished for life.

Justin Miller: He pay you for your time? He has a bad habit of forgetting.

My heart picked up its pace.

Olin Moss: No, he paid me.

In cash and kisses.

My thoughts returned to the thick envelope.

I shouldn’t do it. I knew I shouldn’t. But I couldn’t stop my fingers typing:

Olin Moss: Random question, but do you know the going rate for a living canvas?

I liked torturing myself.

Liked justifying my crazy conclusions.

Liked chasing rabbits that had no right to make me worry.

Justin took a few minutes to reply.

Justin Miller: Eh, I think it’s about three to five hundred per commission. Why?

I froze.

Oh, no...

I’d been right.

Gil had overpaid me.

Paid me triple.

Over triple.

Why?

Not