“I am not letting him take them too,” he said.

Before I could answer, a loud, heavy knock sounded at the front door of the studio.

The sound rattled the old wooden frame, echoing sharply through the quiet apartment.

I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Jonathan slowly let go of my hand, his eyes turning toward the door.

On the table, the phone screen flickered again, a new message lighting up the surface.

I kept my hand flat against Jonathan’s chest, feeling the rapid, heavy beat of his heart.

The knock came again, three sharp cracks that made the glass jars of turpentine on my shelves rattle.

Jonathan did not move toward the door immediately.

He picked up the phone from the table, his thumb wiping across the screen to reveal the glowing text message.

“It is Benjamin,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

I let out a breath I had not realized I was holding, my shoulders dropping slightly.

Jonathan walked past me, his leather shoes clicking softly against the worn pine floorboards of the studio.