“Mrs. Lindstrom, if you aren’t going to let us in—”
“I am not Mrs. Lindstrom.” I stared at the face through the porthole.
“My apologies.” He rolled his eyes. “Mr. Lindstrom was the name on the payment. If you aren’t going to let us in, we’ll return to the city.”
He certainly didn’t look like a contract killer or an evil minion. I could just see the edges of bright pink hair along his scalp.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I looked up Splendide. It was legit. Paul was splashed all over the web site wearing various bizarre outfits with even stranger hairstyles.
I studied him with the safety of the door between us. “What did he pay for?”
“Color. Brown, apparently.” He held up a photo of me from last session’s school yearbook. “This color to be exact.”
“Oh.”
Sebastian was clearly trying to set things back to rights. But it would take a hell of a lot more than a change in hair color to do it. Even so, I stuffed the knife behind a pillow cushion and unlocked the door.
Paul pushed through, followed by two assistants with equally bright hair colors. He dwarfed the room and must have been almost six and a half feet tall.
The woman, her eyes painted like a peacock, glanced around and frowned. “Here?”
I should have been offended. Instead, I stared at the rhinestones that dotted her face.
Paul plucked a lock of my hair between his dark fingers and inspected it. “I remember this color. I traveled to do it, too. You’re the one who’s afraid of stylists.”
I shrugged. Given the way he and his assistants dragged in various rolling luggage full of who knew what, I was beginning to agree with that particular lie. “That was me.”
The male assistant with bright green hair pushed my couch, ottoman, and side chair into a snarl on one side of the room and started unpacking his bag.
“This won’t take long.” Paul held up the yearbook photo. “A base of B45 with highlights of A34 and A15.” He stared at my part. “Your roots are already growing back in. Easy to match.”
A sharp sound, like air being let out of a tire, shot through the open front door. A moving truck rolled to a stop in front of my cottage. Timothy jumped out of the passenger side. I pressed my hand to my throat, worry shooting through me like tainted adrenaline. He gave me a wave and a smile, as if to say, “Don’t worry.”
It didn’t work. My hands trembled. Was he coming to get me? Was this all part of Sebastian’s sick game?
He and the driver met at the back of the truck and rolled up the door. They started unloading things—my things—from the back. Sebastian was returning everything he’d taken as well as giving me everything he’d bought for me.
“Have a seat.” The female assistant pointed to a salon chair that they’d put together as I’d stared out the door.
“This is surreal.” I sat as the woman side-eyed my furniture.
“You aren’t kidding.” She started brushing out my blonde strands as Timothy carried an armload of clothes through the front door.
“Can I put these in your bedroom?” At least Timothy asked before coming any farther.
“Yes.” Seeing him here added to the crazytown feel. But he was dressed down in a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt.
“Bless.” Paul watched Timothy walk by with more than just professional interest. He turned to me and stirred some purple gel inside a small paint tray. “Eye on the prize, beautiful. Let’s get this show on the road.”
44
Sebastian
I finished off the bourbon and tossed the bottle to the far side of the greenhouse. The satisfying crash of glass was the perfect backdrop to opening my next bottle of Pappy. The lid dropped to the ground, and I took a long draw.
Her plants grew around me, and I wondered how long it would take for the vines and leaves to cover me over, bury me in the green she loved so much. Her touch colored everything in here, from the pots and plants to the mortar and pestle she’d used to create my poison.
I knew physical pain. That was an easy sensation to clock. But it was nothing like the excruciating agony of losing her. Everything seemed to stop, and there was nothing in the world that could get it started again. Except her. So, instead of waiting for something that would never happen, I decided to drink. Seemed logical.
Was the pain worse because I’d never felt anything like it? I didn’t know, but I wanted it to stop. Therein lay the problem. The only thing that would fix it was a woman who ran from me the first chance she got. I took another swig from the fresh bottle, barely even tasting the amber liquid as it slid down my throat.