"I don't know."
I answered honestly, my pencil hovering over the fresh canvas. The truth was, I had no clear image in mind.
My hand moved almost on its own, drawing loose, abstract lines that somehow felt like the chaos inside my head lately, the kidnapping, the gunshot wound that still ached when I moved wrong.
Maria's drunken words about my father's 'killer,' and the way Daniel had been both my cage and my safety net these past weeks.
His arms stayed wrapped around me from behind, steady and quiet. For a moment, the room felt peaceful, just the soft scratching of the pencil on paper and the gentle rise and fall of his breathing against my back.
"You sure my father committed suicide?"
The words slipped out before I could stop them. I felt his body tense instantly behind me, every muscle going rigid at the question. Now I didn't need to ask anything else. I already knew the answer.
"Yeah. Why do you ask?"
"Sometimes I think it's not true, that's all."
