Page 17 of Stone: The Precursor

Me: I know. But I don’t want the publicity.

King: I feel you. I hate the media.

Me: Same. Reed’s been vindictive before, and I can’t go through the stress.

King: I could still kill him for that revenge porn shit he tried. Thankfully, it’s not really your naked body.

Me: But it looks enough like me for the media to run with it.

King: I can’t stand his dumb ass.

Me: Feeling is mutual. I just want this over with. I’m almost done here. I’ll see you soon. Should I bring home food?

King: Nah. I got you dinner already. Thai. See what a good roomie wife I am? I knew you’d be there late. If you keep this up, we’ll end up divorced.

Me: You’ll never leave me. You love me too much.

King: Facts. I love your banana milkshakes and your taste in movies. You also make the best ribs. You give good massages and you clean up after yourself. If I liked pussy we’d be on our 10th anniversary already.

Me: Love you too.

I pocket my phone and exit our messages, loving that I have her in my life. What she said is true. Kingsley Shearer is my best friend, the one person who knows everything about me. I have other friends, but she’s the sister I never had. I don’t know what I would do without her. Our lives are almost a mirror of each other. Powerful fathers. Absent mothers. Although my mother’s absenteeism was due to her unexpected death. Her mother’s absenteeism is due to mental illness.

But growing up wasn’t easy for either of us. The last few years have been challenging, with the ceaseless hounding by the paparazzi and the public’s intense interest in my life. It doesn’t help that Jace is so widely followed, and everyone cares about what he says or does. Adam’s accident also thrust us into thelimelight even more. Everyone wants to know what the Park family is doing.

I’ve worked really hard on staying under the radar, not wanting the type of pressure that Kingsley deals with. It’s one of the main reasons I use my mother’s maiden name whenever I go out, except for when I have to attend public functions like a gala or a donation dinner. With my father being sick right now, it’s even more intense scrutiny. Rumors are running rampant about whether Park Industries will survive. Everyone is holding their breath about the notion that my older brother, Adam, will take over and run the company since my brother Jace already works with Silas Kenzington at Kenzington Consulting Group. All of it is made for some interesting family interactions.

Turning off the lights in the storage unit, I head back down the long hallway, pulling out the keys to lock up. I still need to collect my painting knives that I left drying.

I pause and stare down at my collection of palette knives. Two are gone. I count again and then head to the sink to check if I left two there, but I don’t see anything. What the fuck? Am I losing my mind? Did I take them with me? Two of my palette knives are gone. Spinning, I look around, checking the floor, but don’t spot the missing tools. When I look up, my blood runs cold because what I do notice shouldn’t exist. The front door to the studio is propped open, with a tube of paint wedged in the top hinge. Deep, dark red paint drips slowly from the tip, staining the floor.

My heart beats faster. Barry locked the door. He locked it. I know it. I remember him locking it. Or maybe he didn’t? Did he make a mistake? Was it closed, and then he accidentally unlocked it?

I rush to the door and remove the almost empty tube of paint. Red paint stains my hands, resembling blood. I wipe it off on my jeans, but it stains my fingers, saturating the creases in my skin.

Jerkily, close the door, locking it as I peer through the glass at the street beyond, not wanting to see anyone, but needing to feel like maybe I’m not going insane and see Barry show up laughing that he forgot something, but my friend doesn’t suddenly appear.

No one appears. The side street where the studio is is empty and deserted at this time of night. That emptiness is one of the reasons I picked this studio. It’s off the beaten path, used primarily by local artists seeking a quiet place to paint and create.

I flip the closed sign and walk backwards, bumping into the corner of the drafting table, knocking down my knives. My hands tremble as I think about all the strange instances that have been happening over the last week. The front seat of my car moved back. The feeling that someone is watching me. At the time, I chalked it up to my overactive imagination, but my skin tingles now.

Someonewas inside.Someonewas here.

Chapter 8

June

Camryn Emilia Park AKA Camryn Emilia Whitter

24 YO

2nd year medical student at Albert Einstein Medical School.

120 lbs

5’9

Black hair, green eyes