Watch Me Die by Erica Spindler Read Free Book Online Page A

all classic signs of addiction.”
    “You’re saying that for the last year, the Magdalene window has been my drug of choice?”
    “It’s possible. Maybe your relapse was precipitated by the fact the window is complete. Soon to be installed. Essentially, about to be taken away from you.”
    And what does she do? Run for her original drug of choice.
    “Great,” Mira snapped. “I finally get back to the point where I’m loving my work and feeling connected again, and you tell me it’s some sort of unhealthy obsession?”
    “I didn’t tell you that’s what it was. I offered it as a possibility.” She cocked her head. “And I didn’t use the term obsession. That was your choice.”
    Mira scowled at her. “I hate when you do that. Turn my words around on me.”
    “You’re supposed to.” Dr. Jasper’s lips lifted in a small smile. “If it’s not at least a little uncomfortable, I’m not doing my job effectively.” She glanced at her watch. “With that, our time’s up.”

 
    CHAPTER TWELVE
    Friday, August 12
    10:00 A.M.
    Mira pulled into the gravel lot behind her studio and parked her Ford Focus. Her session with Dr. Jasper had left her on edge and vacillating between being disheartened and pissed off. Not with the therapist. Or even herself.
    At the situation. At the fact she’d been able to turn something as healing as her art into a way to stay numb.
    She climbed out of the car, slamming the door. A moment later, she rounded the front of the building. A converted chapel, located just off River Road, a few miles from the Uptown bend in the Mississippi River, the ninety-year-old building fit her needs perfectly. Constructed entirely of cypress boards, it consisted of three rooms, one of which was large enough to serve as her workshop, and lots of windows to provide natural light. Most important, it sat on natural high ground that hadn’t flooded during the storm.
    She let herself in. The smell of acetone and mud hit her first. Next, she became aware of the light, the way it spilled through the artworks, creating patches of color on the floors and walls. Through the day, as the sun moved, the colors and patterns would shift, creating a kind of life-sized kaleidoscope.
    In the months immediately after Jeff’s death, she’d worked only because the destruction had been so great. She hadn’t felt the pull of the glass, had been unable to see its beauty. The feeling of purpose and completion her art usually provided had been replaced by something cold and mechanical.
    It had been an awful, barren place to live, though she preferred it to the chemically induced euphoria she had turned to.
    Mira crossed through what had originally been the church narthex but was now a storefront, and into the small kitchen. Using her single-serve Keurig pot and a pod of her favorite blend, she fixed herself a cup of coffee then headed with it to her workshop.
    Pocket doors separated the work from the retail areas. She slid them open and stepped into the room, then closed the doors. Organized chaos reigned. Six large tables, some supporting restorations in progress, others cluttered with buckets of tools, stacks of journals, catalogs and the occasional abandoned water bottle, formed two rows. Every inch of wall space was covered with a seeming mishmash of sketches, posters, photos, ads and articles, much of it covered in a layer of studio grit.
    That such a precise art form could be created in such a disorderly environment still astounded her.
    Sipping her coffee, Mira made her way past the racks of colored glass, the bins of lead, zinc and copper came, heading for the rear of the studio—and the heart of the Magdalene window, the large center panel depicting a grieving Magdalene at the foot of the cross.
    The other four panels were wrapped and racked, ready to be transported to their new home. Mira had been unable to let this one go.
    Another indication that Dr. Jasper had been right.
    Mira stopped in front of it now. Done