Burn 2 by Dawn Steele Page B

at him as if they wish they could shove him into the grave so that Rachel could torment him in the afterlife. She pictures Richard launching at Devon and starting a fight. Richard is a smaller man than Devon, but rage may make him stronger.
    “Devon, it’s not about you. This funeral is about her family and friends celebrating her life and mourning her death. You can’t go there to make a scene. It’s not about you!”
    This seems to puncture through him.
    “But I didn’t kill her,” he says obstinately.
    “I know you didn’t. That’s why we are all trying to prove it. But you don’t have to make matters worse by attending her funeral.”
    In fact, she was toying with the idea of going herself. Rachel was her boss after all. And it would look strange if she didn’t show up, as if either she is guilty or something. And yet, everyone has to know by now that Devon is her boyfriend. They may reserve the same sort of treatment for her that they would mete out to Devon.
    He reads her mind. He has been doing more of that lately. Maybe it’s their closeness. Maybe it’s the fact they have been spending more and more time with each other.
    He gives her shrewd stare . “You are not thinking of going to the funeral, are you?”
    She feels her cheeks burn.
    “Uh, no.”
    He nods. His eyes are narrowed. “But you are wrestling with the same thing. This is not about you either. You’re afraid they will make a scene with you in there because of your connection to me.”
    She doesn’t reply.
    His expression contorts. “God, I’m such a mess. I destroy anything I touch.”
    H e puts his paint-stained hands on his face.
    “Devon, no.” She runs to him, distressed. She tries to pry his hands away from his beautiful face, so full of anguish.
    “It’s true. My mother, my father, you, Rachel . . . everyone. Maybe I’m cursed. I can’t be with anybody. They get destroyed somehow. Look at you. I’m bringing you down with me.”
    “That’s not true. I chose to run away from my father.”
    It’s the best thing I have ever done, she thinks. The only thing I could have done. If I hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have met you.
    Why does she love him the way she does? she has often wond ered of late. Because he’s kind? Because he cares for me the way no one else ever did, even when he knew nothing about me? Because he’s beautiful and passionate and talented?
    Tears are shining in Devon’s eyes. He has not cried before this. At least, she has never seen him cry openly.
    He says in a choked voice, “I can’t even paint anymore.” He looks down at his hands. A smudge of blue paint has gotten onto his right cheek. “Look.”
    He gestures at his canvas.
    She looks. The canvas is filled with the shaky outline of a woman and imbued with blues and blacks. Devon does not sketch prior to painting. But this one – although it is far from being finished – is not up to his usual standard of work.
    “It’s supposed to be her ,” he says bitterly. “But I can’t even paint her right anymore, even though she invades my dreams.”
    H er chest wrenches. “Oh, Devon.”
    She takes him in her arms, smudged paint on overalls and everything. His entire body is trembling. She doesn’t care if the paint gets on her clothes, only that he needs to be held right now and she is the right person to do it. He holds her tightly back, as if she is his only anchor in the world.
    They grip each other for an eternity, and suddenly, she understands what he must be going through. She experiences it in a visceral sense that she hasn’t understood until now. His emotions about what is going on are buried so deep inside him that they are manifesting through his subconscious. He is an artist, and it is coming out in his work – all dark layers of it.
    A knock on the door interrupts them. He looks away, blinking back his tears.
    “I’ll get it. You go clean up,” she says.
    He nods and hurries off. She goes to the door and peeps into the