od there, my back pressed against the wood, my entire body shaking. The polished floors and pristine white walls of the g

ety of my solitude, tha

d on the floor, the anger and humiliation from the gallery twisting into a deep,

c accusation, Tiffany' s crocodile tears,

ut his belief in me was the foundation of my entire life. He was an artist, too, a brilliant but unrecognize

through my tears. I had to see the transaction history for myself. I had my own saved cop

destro

hard, cold resolve replacing the chur

e bank loaded, a loud, insist

p! We know you

voice, sharp

ollowed me. I scrambled to my feet, backing away f

oor right now, or I

him in. Mark stormed into my apartment, his face a mask of fury. Tiffan

ant?" I asked,

, a harsh, ugly sound. "I want

against my worktable. I held my g

ur money," I spat

k of disgust. "But I' m sure you stashed it somewhere. Perhaps you gave it to your mother? W

cal blow. He was attacking my mother, a woman who worked tireles

bout my mother," I snar

dripping with venom. "The poor scholarship girl, finally gets a t

on the table. The bank' s website

aid, lunging for the laptop. "Let' s look ri

a vicious shove, she sent the laptop flying off the table. It crashed to th

o my knees beside the shattered

said with a fake g

to my feet. His grip was painful

tone changing. She placed a gentle hand on his arm

nted and released me. "Fine. Five minutes." He stalked over to the oth

on shifting to one of deep, sincere

al. "You' re in a lot of trouble. But I can help you. Mark is furiou

that s

say, for family emergencies... I can convince Mark to be lenient. We can say you made a mis

by her audacity. She wanted

in the sliver of space, I could see the reflection in my full-length mirror. And in that refle

Tiffany' s phone, sitting on my table, buzzed. She glanced down a

d. Were they te

tening to someone on the phone. And I saw his lips move as he spoke in a low, hushed

r whatever you have to. She' s too emotional to th

tilted o

ieve you st

tension, the years of shared glances and unspoken feelings... he knew. And he was using it. He was using what he tho

ught me how to draw, the friend who defended me from bullies in elementary school, the young man I

my heart had ceased to beat. The love, or whatever I

f fake sympathy. I looked at the reflection

ing but a vast,

of the apartment, but out of th

of weary defeat. "Okay," I whispered, my voice hoars

with victory. "Of co

ed. I grabbed a duffel bag, stuffing it with clothes, my sketchbook, and the small box

p my phone. I sent a

o away for a little while. I' m safe. I

equate message, but it

back. I went straight to the bus station and bought a one-way ticket to the farthest city I could afford. As the

lt f