“I’m going to marry your son,” she said suddenly.

“I’d hoped so. You’re just exactly what he needs. A reminder that life isn’t so black and white. That there’s a lot of fun to be had with colors.”

“It’s good to have you here,” she said. “I’m going to go back to the studio and see if I can burn off some energy with paint for an hour or so.”

He nodded. “I’ll be here.”

She headed down the hall, wandering past rooms that held so many signs of life now. Schoolwork for the kids. Kimber’s makeshift office in the living room. Magnus and her father both snoring in the living room. The popcorn bowls. It felt good, right, to fill Brick’s life with just a little bit of chaos.

She stepped into the studio and flicked on the lights. Shaking off the anxiety about what lurked beyond the dark windows, she rolled her work in progress back onto the center of the drop cloth.

She’d finish her painting for Brick later. Right now, she felt like exorcising some demons. With “No Surprises” on repeat, she kicked off her shoes and got to work.

The nervous energy, the sliver of fear that put a metallic taste in her mouth, was exactly what she needed. To create fear and confusion with brush and oil. To bring a desperate drive to survive to life on canvas. As it took shape, as she shaded and scraped and layered, she wondered if anyone else would ever see this painting. Or if perhaps she’d paint it and then burn it. Or maybe she’d sell it. There were collectors out there who would appreciate a moment of fear frozen in time to hang on a wall.

However it ended, she would be free. She, Camille, Brick. They would all be free to go on with their lives, to move forward.

But first, she had to finish.

* * *

She didn’t know how much time had passed when someone calling her name dragged her from the trance of color and memory. The song was still on repeat, but it felt distant now. As if its hold had been severed.

“Remington?”

She tore her eyes away from the painting and found Camille standing on the ramp. She was dressed casually in borrowed leggings that were several inches too short and a sweatshirt.

Remi snapped the rest of the way out of her reverie and fumbled for her phone to shut off the music.

“Hey,” she said. “Can’t sleep?”

Camille shook her head. “My brain feels too full. Am I interrupting?”

Remi glanced at the canvas again. “No. I think I’m done,” she said, dropping her paint-laden palette on the nearest work table and rolling out her shoulders.

“That song,” Camille said, walking down the ramp. “That’s what we were listening to in the car.”

Remi nodded.

“Are you painting it?” her friend asked.

“I think I painted the song and the accident,” she said, again glancing at the canvas.