Braxton--In the Art Room

I have a scotch in my hand. It’s my third. I should probably slow down. I don’t want to wake up with a hangover, but it’s hard not to drown my sorrow in alcohol when I feel like shit.

I’m sitting in the art room I had put in for Julia, looking at the paintings she did when she was here, looking at the stool we were sitting on when we made love in this room. She’s been gone less than twenty-four hours, and I already miss her like hell.

I look down at my phone. I sent her a text about an hour ago. “How are you?” is all it says, but I am hoping she will respond and let me know how it’s going. I have an associate located in the apartment next to hers so that, if Jeff gets violent, that person can intervene. Most of the time, that will be Stringer, but right now it’s someone else so that he could be home with his wife for a while. It will be a rotating assignment, one I’ve delegated to someone else. I trust all of my people to make sure that Julia is kept safe, but I want to talk to her my