Page 30 of Traitor
Chapter Eleven
Peyton
I should have listenedto Ford and stayed at the lodge and rested, but I didn’t.
Waiting around while everyone else cleared out would have only driven me crazy, and I needed to keep moving or it would give me too much time to think. I wanted to be surrounded by people, activity, sounds.
Life.
So I find myself in the center of town again, although this time, I don’t have my parents’ trust money to blow, so I window shop and wonder if having drinks with Ford is just one more in a long line of mistakes.
The colorful sign for Splatters Studio catches my eye as I walk down the sidewalk, and I remember Alice’s job offer. I hadn’t really given it serious thought at the time, as I’d just been planning to pass through, but now…everything is different. I don’t have the money to fall back on, and with the murder I don’t feel like I can leave.
I hesitate on the crosswalk at an intersection as I ponder whether to go in or to head back to my car. If I stay, it means facing what happened that night, something I’ve barely been able to do with my own past, let alone involving myself in someone else’s trauma. It means facing Ford, and whatever is—or isn’t—there. It means staying when every instinct inside me is screaming at me to run. To hide, like I did for so long after I lost my parents.
The safety net I’ve had for so long is gone. This wild adventure I’d begun is over before it really began, but this time I don’t want to be the girl who locked herself away because she was too scared. I want to be the kind of girl who can face her fears and come out on the other side stronger. As much as I want to be her, at the center of it, I don’t know if I am, and I’m terrified to let myself down.
I don’t know why, but in that moment of indecision, I hear Ford’s voice from our conversation earlier.
“I’ve got you,”he’d said. Effortlessly. Like he believed it.
Maybe, for a second, I did too.
My feet move in the direction of Splatters before I give myself the chance to think about what I’m doing. There’s a birthday party going on, but the owner, Alice, spots me the second the bell jingles when I open the door.
She crosses to my side with a smile on her face. “You haven’t left yet?” she asks and pulls me in for a hug. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”
“Actually, I was wondering if the offer for a job was still open. If it is, I’d like to take it.” Butterflies flutter in my stomach and I feel faint, but not because I’m scared this time. Because I’m excited. I shouldn’t be on the cusp of all the terrible things that have happened, but I’ll take my positive moments where I can get them. “I’m going to be in the area longer than I expected.”
Alice’s head tips to the side as she considers me. “I have to say, I’m surprised. Pleased, but surprised. Why don’t you follow me back to the office and we’ll get the employment paperwork out of the way?” She takes me by the arm and leads me to a small, but stylish office in the back of the building. “What made you change your mind?” she asks, as she takes a seat behind her desk and begins rifling through drawers.
I sit opposite her and place my purse in my lap. Shrugging, I say, “Unfinished business.”
She passes me a manila folder and a pen. “Why don’t you get started on these while we get to know each other. What got you interested in art?”
Considering my words carefully, I open the folder and begin filling out the paperwork. “Originally, I was very interested in portraits. The people behind the mask. Capturing the emotions behind the expression, that sort of thing. Pulling the true person out from behind the veneer.”
“You’ll have to show me some of your work sometime.”
I shrug, keeping my eyes on the forms and applying myself to keeping the pen steady as I write. “I don’t really do portrait work anymore. Not in,” my voice breaks and I clear my throat. “Not in a couple years now. I work primarily with landscapes these days,” I finish.
At the middle of it all, I approach my art with the quiet meticulousness that characterized my childhood. My mom used to tell me my art was the only place where I truly let myself go, where I connected with people. I haven’t been able to connect much these days. My therapist likes to say I paint landscapes now because I’m afraid to look too deep into another person. Well, whether he was right or not we’ll never know, because I haven’t painted a portrait since the day before my parents died.
“One of your landscapes, then,” Alice comments.
I glance up, lost in thought. Then I catch the thread of the conversation again. “Right, of course. I’ll have to remember to bring a piece sometime.”
The portraits I used to do sit forgotten in Uncle Bradley’s attic. I used to think I could find the answers I was looking for when I did someone’s portrait.
I used to think I knew everything.
The truth is, no matter how hard you try, sometimes there are parts of life that just don’t have any answers.
“That sounds lovely. Now are you staying at the lodge or have you found someplace in town?”
“I have a couple more days I’ve already paid for, but after that, I actually have no idea,” I admit. I finish the stack of papers, close them in the folder, then hand them over. “To be honest, I hadn’t planned to stay, but circumstances have changed so I’m sort of winging it.”
“The great thing about small towns, if there is such a thing, is that we all are in each other’s business.” She grins and gestures for me to get up. “I’ve got some friends around town who might have a place where you can stay. I’ve got a small house, but it may not be to your taste.”