Mine for a Moment

I lean back in my office chair as my thumb brushes over the ridges of the silver paintbrush charm left behind by the artist known as The Muse. By now she must have realized that she lost it last night, but according to my security cameras, she hasn’t come back to look for it.

“Who are you, Muse?” I whisper, unable to figure out why she seemed so familiar. It’s clear she knew Tyra, and though I couldn’t see much of her face, those dark eyes of hers held secrets—secrets I suspect relate to Tyra and her disappearance.

I clench my jaw and tighten my grip around the bracelet charm, wishing I hadn’t let her go. I should’ve questioned her, should’ve demanded answers. Muse has no idea how long I’ve been looking for her, how close I’ve gotten several times before our paths finally crossed last night by sheer coincidence. The building she’d chosen to bless with her art was one I own, and had one of my residents not reported her, I’d never have found her.

“Archer, you fucking missed our meeting.”

I’m snapped out of my daze as Ezra, my best friend and business partner, storms into my office, pure fury written all over his face. Muse’s charm slips between my fingers, hitting my desk just as he reaches it.

“You’ve been harping on and on about this expansion opportunity for months now, and you miss the fucking meeting?”

I run a hand through my hair, guilt crashing through me as I stare at the charm on my desk, sunlight reflecting off it in a mystic kind of way, almost as though it’s taunting me. “I found her.”

Ezra tenses, and the pure hope I find in his eyes when I look up completely guts me. “Muse,” I’m quick to correct, my heart wrenching painfully. I’m a fucking idiot. If he’d said those same words to me, I’d have reacted the same way, but our hope only ever turns into devastation.

“Muse,” Ezra repeats, his shoulders slumping, pure bitterness in his voice. My guard is instantly up, knowing he hates it when I mention her. Ezra considers her street art vandalism and doesn’t see the value of it, doesn’t understand her notoriety and fame, let alone my appreciation for her work. He doesn’t understand that Muse gave me something to look forward to throughout one of the hardest periods of my life, when darkness threatened to consume me.

Something about her art made me feel like she understood what I was going through, like she too just wanted someone to see and acknowledge her pain, her grief. I’ve watched her art develop, watched her tell a story I doubt anyone else could decipher, and because of it, I feel connected to her in the strangest way.

Ezra knows it, and he hates it. He’d never admit it, but I suspect he feels like my admiration for Muse is a betrayal of Tyra when it’s nothing like that. Until a few days ago, I wasn’t even sure of Muse’s gender.

“She was just a few blocks away from our office over the weekend, spray-painting a building I own. I asked her about the ballerina mural, and it was clear she knew Tyra, but I can’t figure out if she knows anything about…” about Tyra’s disappearance. I run a hand through my hair and swallow hard, unable to finish my sentence.

Ezra looks down, his gaze conflicted, almost like he wants my words to hold weight, but he’s as tired of having hope as I am. We’ve both been searching for clues as to what happened to Tyra, only to come up empty every time.

“Muse said something I can’t get off my mind. She told me Tyra is gone, that all we have left are memories and dreams that’ll never come true. There was a finality to her tone, as if she knew what happened. I’ve just been replaying her words over and over in my mind and—”

“Archer, where did you get that?” he asks, cutting me off midsentence, a hint of shock in his eyes as he reaches for the charm on my desk.

I raise a brow and rise to my feet, swiping it out of his hand in one smooth move before hiding it away in my suit pocket. “It’s Muse’s,” I murmur, feeling defensive. “She lost it last night.” I don’t tell him that I’d been holding her wrist and that the charm came loose when she pulled her hand away. I’m not sure why I feel the need to hide that, but something about that moment, the way she looked at me…it seemed private for reasons I can’t quite convey.

Ezra looks up and slowly buries a hand in his curly hair, squeezing it the way he does when he’s stressed out. “Fuck,” he whispers. He clears his throat and shakes his head. “Muse…you’ve been fucking obsessed with her art from the moment her murals appeared.” His voice is soft, and for once, he doesn’t sound irritated when speaking of her. “And they started to appear about a year after Tyra disappeared, didn’t they? Did you see Muse’s face last night?”

“Art,” I huff. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you refer to her work as art and not as plain vandalism. And no, I didn’t see her face. She was wearing a mask—all I could tell was that she’s a woman, likely around our age or younger.”

Discomfort crosses his face, and I frown.© NôvelDrama.Org - All rights reserved.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, surprised by his reaction. Normally he’d have jumped on even the vaguest clue related to Tyra’s disappearance, but this time, he’s more focused on Muse. I brace myself for the inevitable tirade he launches into every single time I mention her art, telling me she’s nothing but a glorified criminal, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he just stares ahead, looking forlorn.

“It’s nothing,” he says belatedly, raising his hand to his hair again. “Her latest mural—what is it?”

I raise a brow and stare at him, feeling oddly defensive when it comes to Muse. “It was a piece that seemed to convey unrequited love,” I tell him, and then begin to describe it. For once, he listens patiently, and it completely throws me off.

“Do you have a photo of it?” he asks, his tone urgent.

I nod and show it to him. He takes my phone from me and just stares at it for several moments. “I guess you saw something I didn’t want to acknowledge, but I can’t deny her raw talent, the pain in her work,” he says eventually. “I just didn’t recognize it for what it was.”

“And what might that be?”

He shakes his head before handing my phone back, his expression grim. “A cry for help.”