“And the Art College?”

“Three hours ago.”

“Good. I have an appointment with a client next Thursday who works in the office there. If you don’t have anything promising by then, I can see if he can work something out for you.”

“Thank you so much, Eric.”

“Anytime. I’ll be home late again today. You need anything?”

“Actually, yes, I do need something,” I say. “I need you to put up rules in the kitchen.”

“Rules for three people?”

“It’s really just for one person, but we can pretend they apply to you and me, too. Rule number one: Don’t eat all of the Pop-Tarts, especially if you didn’t buy them.”

“Can rule number two be don’t buy twenty boxes of Pop-Tarts and not expect someone to take a few?”

“Twenty boxes? You’re exaggerating. I bought two a few days ago, and as of today, they’re all gone.”

“Well, I just went home and there are like twenty boxes of Pop-Tarts on the counter, so either you’re being ridiculous, or you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I hang up and shoot him a text of eye-rolling emojis.

I start to fill out another job application and my phone rings once more.

It’s an unknown number, but I answer it anyway.

“Hello?”

“Hello, may I speak to Mia Gray, please?”

“This is she.”

“Hi, Mia! This is Michelle Henderson from The Hamilton Array Gallery. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Of course.” I close my laptop and try not to get too excited.

“Great! Well, I’m calling to let you know that my team was extremely impressed with your interview, and we were even more impressed that you sent us photocopies of your collection the day after. That’s not something you see every day and it was very unique.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome! That said, I would love for you to join our team as a curator, if you’re still interested in working for us.”

YES! “Yes, I really am,” I say as calmly as possible.

“Great! Well, we still have a few formalities before we can start, but could you, by chance, bring over your tax identification forms and sign the paperwork I email you? Could you bring that by the office anytime this week?”

“Definitely.”

“Okay, good. Also, one last thing. As far as the hours we discussed in the interview, just remember that you’ll be responsible for a few weekends here or there for our more elite clients, and from Monday through Friday, you’ll work seven to three, with some required overtime, if need be. Is that still okay with you?”

“It’s more than okay.” I’m really trying to hold back my excitement, but if this phone call doesn’t end soon, she might discover that I’m a little too eager about this.

“Alright, then!” She says. “See you later this week, Mia. Have a great day.”

“You as well.” I wait for her to end the call and then I jump out of my chair, screaming “YES! YES! YES!”

Everyone in the shop turns to look at me, and I immediately sit back down again.

Acting as if that didn’t just happen, I open my laptop and check my email. Miss Henderson has already emailed me, so I take my time and fill out all of the paperwork.

When I’m finished, I go to the copy shop across the street and print out the files. I take the bus four blocks down to the condo and decide to grab my tax information so I can have it ready for tomorrow.

The first thing I notice inside are the numerous boxes of Pop-Tarts on the kitchen counter. The next thing I notice is a black and white sheet hanging on the refrigerator.

Stepping closer, I notice that Dean’s handwriting is in most of the boxes, but what’s most alarming is the work schedule that’s written in the corner of each one.

Seven to three.

Just like me.

The complete opposite of Eric.

Shit. Shit. Shit...

If I wasn’t able to escape him before, I’ll never be able to escape him now...

Chapter 17

MIA

The house is abnormally quiet today, too quiet. All I can hear is the sound of Portland’s familiar light rain outside my window and the light tap-tapping of the coffee maker in the kitchen.

As I lay in bed and look up at the ceiling, I wonder how long it’ll be until I hear Dean purposely banging every pot against the countertop to rile me up. I wonder if he’s thought of new and improved ways to annoy the hell out of me.

Sighing, I grab my Kindle and start reading, but I still don’t hear any sounds. I get four chapters in and all that’s changed is the pace of the rain outside.

Confused, I get out of bed and head into the living room, then the kitchen. Then I realize he isn’t here.

His keys aren’t hanging on the rack by the door, remnants from breakfast are lying half-eaten on a plate, and his police jacket isn’t on the coatrack.

Hmmm. Perfect...

I tiptoe to his side of the house and walk past his bathroom, letting the familiar scent of his aftershave invade my senses. I walk down the hallway a little farther and notice that the door to his bedroom isn’t shut like usual. It’s wide open.

I hesitate a few seconds before walking in—knowing that snooping on him is totally fucked up, but I can’t help it.

Stepping inside, I close the door behind me and look around. His room literally looks like a replica of the one I spent so many nights in when we were in high school.

The few pictures on the wall are framed ones of guitars, his class with the police academy, and of him and Eric sitting at a bar holding up beers. He has five guitars now, and they’re all lined up by his huge bay window, in perfect view of the park below.

His bed in unmade, and there are way too many pillows for one person on it, so I take three of them and carry them quickly to my room, before coming back.

Picking up one of the guitars, I instantly remember how he once attempted to teach me to play.

“God, Mia...It’s a guitar, not a piano. You don’t have to be that delicate with the strings. No, you don’t need a bow for it either... Okay, you know what? Give that back. Just stick to art...”

I set it down and walk over to his dresser. I open the top drawer and roll my eyes at the numerous condoms inside.

I open the next one. Socks. Sweats. Nothing important.

Convinced the third one will be a disappointment as well, I walk over to his massive closet. It’s stuffed with a wardrobe that rivals Eric’s and there are more pictures hanging on the walls: Him and Eric at some type of festival, him and his co-workers leaning against a squad car, him and...a fiancée?

I take the picture of him and a woman in a red dress down and look a little closer. His arm is draped around her neck and she’s holding her hand up to show off a ring, but I don’t see one on his hand. I look around the walls for another picture of her so I can see if he was indeed engaged, but I don’t find one.

My eyes catch a picture of me instead.

Well, my artwork anyway.

Tucked into the corner behind his suit jackets, and hanging visible enough for someone who only steps so far in, is the small picture I painted for him years ago. The picture of us at the bonfire, kissing in colorful streams of silver and blue.

I run my fingers across the acrylic and smile, but then I let it fade. I’m sure he thought nothing of it when he put it up, and it is at the back of the closet...

I shut the closet doors and walk over to his desk. I don’t bother opening his laptop because I’m sure it’s password protected, but when I push it to the side, my jaw drops.

Beneath it is a calendar for Western Peak University. An alumni calendar.

What?

I open the desk’s top drawer and shake my head as I see more Western Peak paraphernalia: Pens, papers, and a yearbook.

I quickly flip it open and thumb to the student section. Straight to the C’s, and right there, still looking All-American as ever, is Dean Collins on the center of the page.