Chapter Nineteen

It was that word. “Kill.” It did something to me. It was so much worse than “die.”

“I have to kill you,” he said again. “Then I’ll have to kill myself. I can’t live without you.”

He shrugged.

“At least that way we’ll be together for all time.”

He smiled at me, like a guy just trying to make the best of a bad situation.

“Do you mind if I have another drink first?” he asked.

I shook my head, but not too much. The knife was still there. I realized I didn’t want it cutting me.

“Before I die,” I said, “there’s something I’d like to do.”

“What’s that?” he said. He was struggling to pour the champagne with one hand.

“I’d like to draw your picture.”

I could tell he was surprised. He stopped pouring and looked at me.

I took as deep a breath as I could without moving the knife.

“You’re very handsome,” I said. “And…and you’ve done so much in your short life. Music…Photography …”

He chewed on his lip and studied me. It’s like he wanted to see right into me. I tried to make my eyes smile.

“I know things haven’t gone well between the two of us. And…and maybe it has to end this way. But that doesn’t mean you should just be forgotten. There should be something to remember you by. Like a portrait,” I said. “I know you better than anybody else. I think I could capture what’s special about you.”

He pulled the knife away, but he was still hesitating.

“There are a lot of murder-suicides these days,” I said. “We’d probably just be another. But if there were a hand-drawn portrait of the killer…by the victim…that would be different. The newspapers might really pick up on it.”

He tilted his head.

“Maybe the TV stations too. With your music background, it could even interest Entertainment Tonight.”

There was nothing else I could say. I waited.

“You’re right,” he said. “That might get some interest.”

He looked around.

“Do you have any paper?”

“Yeah, I’ve got lots,” I said. I didn’t want to give him a chance to change his mind. I just tore a big jagged sheet of brown paper off a packing crate. I could tell he didn’t like the look of it much.

“I love the rugged quality of this paper, don’t you?” I said and rubbed my hand along it, like it was just the thing I was looking for.

“Ah. Yeah,” he said. “It’s great. So how do you want me to sit?”

He turned his head to the side. He stared off into the distance. He’d obviously seen lots of paintings of famous people.

“Is this okay?”

“That’s perfect,” I said. “Now don’t move.”

I opened my new box of charcoal pencils. I chose a 2B because it had the sharpest point. I looked at Devin. His features were actually pretty nice. A straight nose. Good cheekbones. Almond-shaped eyes. He could have been handsome if someone different had been behind that face.

I sketched an oval, roughed in a nose and eyes. I held the pencil upright in front of his face.

He flinched.

“Sorry. I’m just making sure I get the proportions right,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah. I know,” he said. He always had to act like he knew.

I drew the mouth, adjusted the nose. I looked at the drawing. Even at that early stage, I could see Devin in it. It’s amazing what you can do when you concentrate.

I raised the pencil again. He thought I was just checking proportions. He didn’t flinch.

Not until I rammed the pencil right up his left nostril.

He fell to the floor, screaming, blood spurting everywhere.

I ran past him, through the store, out the front door.

It was just before midnight.

And Leo was pulling into the parking lot.