His Masterpiece by Ava Lore Read Free Book Online Page B

gracefully through the air in a beautiful, aesthetically pleasing arc, and slammed into Don's head with a crunch that sounded like the singing of avenging angels.
    I'm not a poet, I'm a painter. But it was art.
    Then the statue cracked in two, and the gun went off.
    White hot pain speared through my side. I couldn't breathe. The lights shone in my eyes, searing hot. The ceiling, I realized.
    I was on the ground, on my back. In slow motion I lifted my head. Don laid across my crumpled lower body, groaning. A dent in his skull was filling with blood. The stench of copper hung around us.
    I've been shot, I thought.
    Then: Get up.
    A heavy weight lay on my chest and shoulder. A piece of the Rodin. For some reason I felt its loss far more than the bullet in my side. With a limp hand I shoved it off me, onto the ground, and I heard it chip. Teeth clenched, pain ripping through me like wildfire, I rolled over, dragging my legs from beneath Don's body. Something shone in front of me, and I squinted, trying to see clearly.
    The gun.
    I lunged for it, but something was off. My balance. My brain. I couldn't think straight, couldn't see straight. At my feet I heard Don gasp, realizing what I was doing, and without thinking I kicked out, sharp and hard. Another crunch, and he howled with pain and collapsed to the ground. One last lunge and the gun was in my hand.
    It felt good. A heavy, solid weight. Safety. Vengeance. I could kill Don right now, if I wanted to.
    I heaved myself to my feet instead.
    Agony engulfed me. I couldn't feel myself think. I pressed my left hand to my side, trying to staunch the flow of blood with the thick fabric of my hoodie, but there was a lot of it. Sticky, hot, but rapidly cooling. The skin of my face was clammy, cold, wet. I stumbled forward, the gun in my right hand, and crashed through the discarded debris of Malcolm's life.
    I walked like the dead. Shambling. Unable to think. I hurt. I don't know how I made it to the front of the warehouse, but I did. I somehow found it in the maze, and when I fell against the door the metal slats clattered so loudly I thought I would fall apart.
    I had to bend down to reach the handle. I had to let go of my side.
    Dizziness overwhelmed me as I removed my left hand and wrapped it around the handle. I watched from inside my head, trying to figure out what was wrong when I couldn't get a grip.
    Red, I thought. Blood, I thought. My hand fell from the door, limp against my jeans, and with supreme effort I wiped it clean and tried again.
    Metal screamed, and so did I.
    It was almost impossible. It hadn't been heavy before, I had just been pretending, but now it weighed a million pounds. But I had to get out. I had to. I had to get to Malcolm, prove his innocence, or all of this was for nothing.
    Red blood gushed from my side. Ruined muscles screamed in pain, unable to do what I asked of them. I panted. My mouth was dry. I wanted water.
    Focus. Focus. Squat. Lift with the legs, not the torso. Oh god.
    Three feet. That's as far as I was able to lift it. It was enough. I fell to my hands and knees and crawled under the door, into the blinding gray light of the windy March day.
    The sound of a car door opening. Wind whipped over my clammy face. I was going to be sick, but I forced myself to look up. The black car we'd taken here loomed like a hulking black beast in the street. On the far side, the driver was getting out, his mouth hard and set, his eyes glowering at me as though I were a naughty puppy. He was huge, enormous, a giant unfolding toward me.
    If he gets me, I thought, it'll be all over.
    I lifted the gun and fired.
    A look of surprise flashed across his face, as though I'd just grown a clown nose. Then, silently, he folded up and slumped over.
    I didn't even bother to check if he was alive. I crawled along the narrow sidewalk. A chainlink fence on one side of me, and I reached out and pulled myself to my feet before I staggered onward.
    A corner. There were always