Under His Hand. Anne Calhoun

were already in the room when I came up? I didn’t hear anything,” she said, peering over her shoulder.

      He met her eyes without expression. “One, opening a screen doesn’t make much noise. Any kid who’s snuck out of a house could do it. Two, as loud as you were playing Nickelback you wouldn’t have heard an M-16 firing. Not safe, Tess. Not safe at all.”

      Sheer embarrassment heated her cheeks and closed her eyes as she turned back to the wall. She’d had “Far Away” on repeat for over an hour, ostensibly for background noise as she sketched versions of an ornate spiral staircase destined for a downtown loft. The developer knew her earlier work and asked for designs; if she got the commission, she’d create twenty unique staircases and add to her growing reputation for custom work. The payment would buy a new HVAC system, and put a little extra in the bank. But between Drew’s prolonged absence and the vulnerability in the song, the pages were half sketches of intricate decorative work, half rough drawings of his face in ten different attitudes.