“Emma,” I say warningly.
“Leo,” she mimics my tone perfectly, her eyebrow raised. “What are you going to do, force me? Add ‘art theft’ to your list of crimes?”
“I could just take it,” I point out, even though we both know I’m not actually going to wrestle a sketchpad away from her.
“You could try.” There’s a challenge in her eyes that makes my heart rate speed up. “But then I’d fight you, and we both know how that ended last time.”
“You mean when you scratched my face and I barely felt it?” I raise my own eyebrow. “That ending?”
“I drew blood,” she says proudly. “That’s a victory in my book.”
I shake my head. “Your book needs better standards for victory.”
“My book needs you to get out of my room and stop interrogating me about my sketches.”
We’re standing closer than I realized, maybe three feet apart, both of us tense and ready for…something.
I’m not sure what.
An argument, probably.
Maybe for her to throw something at me again.
The air between us feels charged in a way that’s probably just mutual animosity.
“Fine,” I say, stepping back and hating how that feels like losing. “Keep your sketches. But if you’re drawing plans for an escape route, just remember that I have guards on every exit and they’re all armed.”
“Noted,” Emma says coolly. “Now get out. You’re ruining my creative process.”
I leave, locking the door behind me, and try not to think about the fact that I’m already looking forward to coming back this evening.
It’s later that afternoon when I remember that Emma takes long showers in the evening.
At least an hour, sometimes more, which seems excessive but I’ve learned not to question it because it’s probably the only time she feels like she has any privacy.
Which means her room is empty.
Which means I can finally see what she’s been drawing.
It’s just a security check, I tell myself as I try to walk sedately to her room.
I need to make sure she hasn’t figured out how to turn art supplies into weapons or escape tools or drawing detailed layouts of the property that she could somehow smuggle out to Connor.
These are all lies and I know it, but I unlock the door anyway and step into the empty room.
I don’t hear the sound of running water, but that could be because the room has excellent insulation.
The sketchpad is still on the desk where she left it, closed but not hidden.
I pick it up and flip through the pages, expecting to see sketches of the gardens like she claimed, or maybe drawings of the guards that she could be using to memorize faces and routines.
Instead, I find her mother.
Teresa Brennan rendered in careful detail—the waves of her hair, the pearls at her throat, the soft sadness in her eyes that the rest of her face tries to hide.
It’s a good drawing. Actually, it’sreallygood.
Emma has talent I didn’t know about.