Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) by Courtney Cook Hopp Page B

seriously losing it. Sliding off the mental deep-end.”
    I watched the shutters come down over the concern in his eyes, making me wonder if I’d imagined that too. “Trust me, this is nowhere near the deep-end.”
    “What?” I howled. “What does that mean?”
    He reached for my elbow and walked us away from the alley. “Nothing.”
    “Nothing?” I stepped out of his touch and tried to calm the frenzy building inside me, the fear that my mind was slipping in front of him. Always in front of him. The new thought spewed out an irrational accusation. “You’re the reason this is happening.”
    Affronted, he threw up his hands and said, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
    “I have no idea either. All I know is, every time you’re around, I start seeing things.” I turned and stumbled in the direction I thought the ferry would be. I had to get out of here. Away from him.
    “CeeCee. Where are you going?”
    “Home!” I snapped, my feet tripping a jagged line down the sidewalk.
    Quentin ran up behind me and grabbed my arm. “Stop, CeeCee. Talk to me.”
    I threw my finger in his face. “Were you on the island Monday? Did you drive by my house?”
    “CeeCee, I think you need to calm down.”
    “Were you there?” I asked in near hysterics. “Are you stalking me?”
    Quentin grabbed for my hand. “CeeCee, what happened? What did you see?”
    “Someone was shot,” I yelled. My body shook uncontrollably with the revelation.
    His recoiled and dropped my hand. “What do you mean ‘someone was shot’?”
    I couldn’t stop the tremors inside me, forcing me to gulp for air as I tried to explain. “I saw the outline of a man and a couple. A gun went off. I saw the flash of a gun.”
    Quentin didn’t reply. One minute turned into another and I started to panic. I didn’t want him to think I was crazy. I wasn’t crazy! I lifted my head to see if I could read his face, but the darkness covered his features in shadows, leaving them unattainable.
    I couldn’t stand his silent scrutiny any longer. “I’m losing it, aren’t I? I’m fucking losing my mind.”
    He looked at me, his eyes murky pools on a mask I couldn’t read. The ferry horn filled the air and he jerked his head in the direction of the boat and pushed us forward. “We should get you on that boat.”
    That’s right. Send the crazy girl back into isolation.
    The ferry terminal was nearly vacant. Quentin stepped up to the ticket window and said, “Two foot passengers.”
    “You don’t have to cross over,” I protested as he finished the transaction.
    He grabbed the tickets from the window agent and marched us into the holding area.
    Hating his silence more than his patronizing actions, I snapped, “I can take care of myself. I don’t need to be handled like a child.”
    “I don’t doubt it,” he fumed, the hard lines of his face sinking a little deeper. “But since you have no idea what just happened and you really don’t know how deep the deep-end really is, a little forbearance would be acceptable while I make sure you get to your car safely.”
    What was that supposed to mean? A little forbearance? I wanted to ask, but I was exhausted, unable to endure any more question and answer sessions.
    We boarded and I walked straight to the booth I’d ridden over in a lifetime ago. Quentin sat next to me, releasing a current of electricity down my left side. It washed over me, soothing, melting down my hardening stance. Together, we sat quietly, side by side, until the ferry reached Vashon. He followed behind me to the commuter parking lot.
    “Is this your car?” Quentin asked as I stepped up to the red Ghia, its white convertible top glowing in the dim light.
    “Yes,” my defensive posture back. “Is there a problem with it?”
    “No, no.” He held his hands up. “Just a surprising choice.”
    “Well, I didn’t choose it. I inherited it from my dead mom,” I unfairly spit out to rattle him.
    “I’m sorry.” His