Chapter 3

He studied his painting for a second and then slipped his frock off, tossing it on the windowsill. The room was full of propped up paintings and white sheets covered most of the floor. “How was it down there today?”

Down there, yes,the place we owned. Before the nausea and migraines, Derek had been my floor manager, my accountant, my wing man. “Everything’s all right,” I lied. Why tell him he’d messed up the only two orders he’d been responsible for? It would wound him. I’d rather have my tongue cut out.

We filed down the hall and into the kitchen. The place was really coming along, looking nice. Pretty snazzy, I thought. Derek had flair. He was fantastic at picking out pieces for our home. I supposed painting wasn’t such a leap away from the artistry he’d put into our place.

Looking pale, he stood over the kitchen island counter. I plucked the fridge door open to get started on his soup. Forget cans.

“Oh, my God, Nick!” he cried, leaning over my shoulder. “Spencer’s lunch box!”