Page 39 of The Fall of Iris Henley
“What are you working on?” I ask, walking toward her workstation.
She shrugs again. “I come in and paint most days, so I use a lot of canvases. But I like making them. It’s satisfying.” Staple, staple, staple. “You want to do some too? We can have a little outcast crafting circle.”
“I’ve never been much of a painter.” I sit on one of the desks, a little apart from her. “I took printmaking because I wanted something fun to do senior year. But I’m not very good.”
“Give it some time. When it’s the only thing you have left, you might feel otherwise.”
“So things are going well, then,” I say wryly.
She gives me a sidelong glance. “I’d say they’re going about as well for me as they are for you. Fun, right? You’re finally getting a little taste of what it’s been like for us.”
The hair along the back of my neck bristles. A little taste? Is that what this is?
The notion that Kendra could be behind the Sekrit posts suddenly doesn’t seem so far-fetched.
But then she sets her staple gun back down, and her expression is more weary than hostile.
“Don’t let me get to you. I’m kind of a bitch these days. My shrink says it’s a survival mechanism. Are you seeing one?”
“A… a shrink?” I ask carefully.
“Yeah. A shrink. You know, someone who helps you work through trauma?” She gives a soft little chuff of laughter. “I can’t say I’m getting the best results myself, but at least I’ve got someone to talk to.”
“That’s good,” I say. The words sound wildly inane, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
She picks up one of her canvases. “Here, help me carry these over to my cubby.”
“Okay.” I hop off the desk and walk over to where she’s working. The canvases are heavier than they look. I haul them to the corner where she keeps her work. There’s a bunch of paintings propped against the wall, and an easel set up with a half-finished painting of a landscape. The details aren’t quite filled in yet, but it looks like Hill Country. The textures all look like they’ve been slashed onto the canvas.
She leans a pile of canvases against the wall behind her, then picks up talking like we were in the middle of a conversation that got interrupted. “Anyway, now that the sheriff is thinking about reopening Rocky’s case…”
“Wait, what?” I interrupt. “Who says that? What have you heard?”
She shrugs. “Nothing official, but why else is he hauling you in to ask more questions? He’s got to be realizing he rushed the investigation. He’s got to be wondering if there are other things he missed.”
I nod slowly. “What do you think he missed?”
Her eyes suddenly narrow again, like she’s only just remembering that she doesn’t trust me.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I guess we’ll find out.”
I don’t like the way she’s watching me—hawklike, almost eager. It feels like it’s time to be done with this conversation. I pick up my backpack. “Yeah, I guess. Anyway. I’ve got to get to class. Thanks for letting me hang out for a minute.”
I turn to go, and when I do, I bump a stack of drawings on the corner of her desk. They go flying everywhere—sketches in charcoal and pencil and India ink, some in colored pencils, some in pastels. There are dozens of them. I bend to start gathering them back up. Then I freeze, my eyes locking on the one in my hand.
It’s a rough line drawing. But rough as it is, it’s clear as day.
Lynette, lying flat on a plank floor and staring lifelessly upward. And Rocky, also on his back but with his torso tilted just a little to one side. Facing the viewer. Facing me. One side of his head ragged from where the bullet hit.
My vision scatters. I look around at the other pictures on the floor, all the colors and mediums and angles and sizes, and they are all Lynette and Rocky, all dead, all torn apart by bullets.
I look up at Kendra. Her expression has crumpled. I can’t tell if it’s rage… or just agony.
“It’s all I can draw now,” she says simply.
The pictures fall out of my hands. I let them tumble like leaves all around my feet as I back up toward the door.
“It’s all I can see,” she adds. It sounds almost like a plea. But I can’t stay here. I can’t look at them anymore. I turn on my heel and leave.
