Page 112 of Tears of Ink

“Paints.” I motion to the array of different types and colours. “You’ve all got a canvas each.”

“Each?” Dylan eyes the wall of canvases. I’ve grown to like him, and actually out of all the of the kids we’ve seen, he’s the one with the most natural talent. I’m going to talk to Gerard about him— which reminds me I need to do that.

“Yes.” I nod. “So, the idea is—and you’ve all got to use your imagination for this—we are going to fill the walls of the ballroom with our dreams. I want you to use the canvas, use the paints in any way you like to create a replica of a dream or the thing you want most.”

“If I want a Fiat 500?” quips Maisie.

“If that’s your biggest dream in life, then yes.” I smirk at her, but it’s wasted. “Here’s the thing.” I add, making sure I have all their attention. “There are no paintbrushes, no sponges, nothing but your fingers and body.”

Stunned faces meet mine. “Like we’re supposed to get dirty?” A small brunette near the back, and who’s always at the back, pipes up.

“Hell, yes. Dirty as can be.” I flush a little. Last night I was definitely dirty, in a way that can’t be replicated on a canvas, even by an artist as skilled at Eli.

I grab an easel and pull it over to the centre of the room, and then grab some tubes of acrylic paint.

“Why is everything she does blue?” Dylan mutters, but someone shushes him as I unscrew the top and smear some directly onto the canvas. It’s a giant splurge but then I start to spread it with my fingers. It’s wet and cool beneath my touch and there is something incredibly pleasurable about making the finger spread mess, and I don’t even like painting.

“What are you all waiting for?” I ask. “Get stuck in.”

I grin and turn back for the canvas. My idea for the big dream ball is quite simple. We will provide the backdrop—Elijah will provide the centrepieces, and I’ll make sure every person there knows he’s the true artist, not me.

I don’t know how long we’ve all been in here, when the door open and Tabitha slips in. Her face is blotchy: pale in places, bright red in others, like she’s fallen into a pot of jam. I drop my paints and wipe my hands on an oil rag. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” She gives a small shake of her head.

“Well that’s a big fat lie.”

Red-rimmed eyes meet mine. “Nothing.”

“Where’s Lewis?” I’m not stupid, there can be only one reason she’s crying like this.

She shudders a breath. “He’s gone.”

“Where?”

I only saw Eli last night, and he didn’t mention Lewis being able to go back to the city.

She shrugs, and alarm bells sound in my brain. “Wait here.” I walk out into the outhouse hallway and take my phone out of my back pocket. I know Eli and I aren’t communicating in public, but this is work—sort of. He answers on the second ring.

“Where’s Lewis?” I ask, ignoring the little stab of desire that darts through me at hearing his voice.

“What do you mean, where is Lewis?” He has his business voice on and I know he isn’t alone.

“He’s not here. Tabitha says he’s gone.”

“Not that I’m aware of.” He pauses. “This isn’t good. There’s been a development on his mother’s case.”

My stomach clenches. “And?”

“The other witness… she isn’t willing to give evidence.”

“So what now?”

There’s a hefty pause and I can all too clearly visualise him rubbing his hand through his hair. “Now I think again.”

“Okay.” I want to ask him if I’m going to see him later—if somehow we are going to manage to find a way to be together—but I don’t. “I’m going to find your mother. Maybe she knows where Lewis is.”

“Ah crap, I hope you survive.”