Cross Her Heart (Bree Taggert #1)(16)

Pizza boxes, clothes, and art supplies littered every surface. Bree rated the disaster as a Category 4, which meant Adam was in the final stages of a painting. In the next day or two, the debris would spread to the floor. When he was finished, he’d do nothing but eat and sleep for a week before shoveling out the chaos and beginning all over again.

Dropping her coat on the back of the sofa, she walked to the studio and peered around the partition. Light poured from a picture window onto a huge canvas. Adam squinted at it. He was twenty-eight, but his face was lean and unlined. He could pass for a college student—until you looked into his eyes. Those were old-soul.

He wore ripped jeans and a paint-splattered sweatshirt from the University of Pennsylvania, Bree’s alma mater. His hair was shoulder-length and streaked with gray paint. His brush was loaded with gray as well, and he applied it in broad, possessed strokes to a canvas the size of a classroom chalkboard. Bree studied the painting. It was abstract, but she could see the transition. Bold blues and angry reds swirled violently in the background. But the top layer had gone gray. It was fury and sadness, layered in pain. Without asking, she knew the gray had taken over during the night, after he’d learned of Erin’s death. Not that the underlying layers were anything approaching happy. His paintings never were. To Bree they’d always seemed as if terrible emotions were exploding on his canvases. Was this how Adam purged his demons?

He’d been an infant when their parents had died. He couldn’t possibly remember. Right?

But holy hell, darkness was a part of him so heavy she sometimes wondered how he shouldered the weight.

If she were naming this particular painting, she’d call it Every Shade of Sorrow.

“That sweatshirt is older than Luke,” she said.

Adam didn’t respond for a few seconds, then he turned his face toward her. His eyes echoed the emotions in the painting. For the Taggerts, tragedy was a family trait, carrying through the generations along with their brown hair and hazel eyes.

“Bree.” He crossed the ten feet between them and hugged her hard. Releasing her, he held her at arm’s length and frowned. “I got paint on your clothes.”

Bree looked down. Gray splotched her sweater, as if his mood were transferrable. “I don’t care.”

She glanced over her shoulder. The kids had settled on the couch, where she assumed they had been before she’d arrived. Kayla was watching TV. Luke huddled over his phone.

Bree turned back to Adam. Red Bull cans lined the windowsill. “Have the kids eaten?”

Adam blinked and turned to the window for a few seconds, as if just realizing it was midmorning. “We had breakfast.” He ran a hand over his scalp, then pushed his hair out of his eyes. “If you’re hungry, there’s leftover pizza in the fridge.”

His gaze—and his attention—had already returned to his painting.

Bree rubbed his arm. He looked thin, but then he always lost weight when he was working. “You need to eat too.”

“OK,” he said absently.

She doubted he’d remembered what she’d said. He was in eat and sleep only when unavoidable mode. Leaving the studio, she went to the kitchen. More Red Bull cans cluttered the counter next to three empty pizza boxes and a box of Cheerios. The milk was sour, but miracle of miracles, she found eggs and cheese that hadn’t expired. She scrambled them and took a plate to Adam. He set it on the windowsill, promising to eat. Bree grabbed a trash bag and cleaned the counter, then set plates on the breakfast bar for the kids.

What should she say to them?

Kayla picked at her food in silence. Luke shoveled the entire plateful down in less than two minutes. He washed it down with water and set the glass down. “When can we go home?”

“Hopefully, later today.” Bree reached out and took one of Luke’s hands and one of Kayla’s. “I don’t know what to do, but I want you to know I’m here for you.”

Kayla began to cry. Bree rounded the breakfast bar and hugged her.

“I want Mom,” Kayla sobbed.

“I know.” Bree pressed her head to the child’s.

The girl lifted her tear-streaked face. “Why did this happen?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” Bree said.

“Last night, the deputies said Justin did it.” Luke’s words were tight.

“They told you that?” Bree asked, angry.

Luke shook his head. “No, but I heard them talking.”

“No one knows what happened yet,” Bree said. But Matt had been right about the deputies and their preconceived theories.

“But Mom was at his house, and he’s gone.” A muscle in Luke’s face twitched, as if he was working hard to maintain control.

“What else did they say?” Bree asked.

“That’s all.” Luke shrugged. “But I want to know more.”

And Bree wanted a few choice words with the deputies who’d talked about the case within earshot of the victim’s kids.

“Justin is missing,” Bree clarified as much as a reminder to herself as to inform the kids. “Until he’s found, we don’t know what happened.”

Emotions churned in Luke’s face. “But you’ll tell me the truth?”

“I will,” Bree promised. Luke was almost an adult. She would not treat him like a child.