Chapter 38

“Do you have paper and a pen I can use?” Brook asked one evening.

Lance looked up from a sketch he was making. “Sure.” He left the room and returned in a minute with a lined pad and pencil. “Will these do?”

“Perfect.” Brook said. She immediately moved to the table, wincing from the soreness of her soles, in spite of the cushioning of her soft shoes. Sitting, she chewed the side of her finger for a minute and began to write. She worked diligently for a long while, turning from one page to another frequently.

Lance could hear her sniffling and realized she was trying hard not to cry. He unobtrusively listened, ready to go to her if she needed him, but he did not interrupt.

Brook finished working after an hour or so and held her head in her hands as her shoulders heaved.

“Brooklyn?”

“Not now, please.” Brook’s voice broke and she rose and went into the bathroom. When she returned she lay on her bed, closed her eyes. Lance soon noticed her breathing become even and he realized she was asleep.

He glanced at the notepad she'd left laying on the table. He thought about looking at it but decided he should wait until invited; unless, of course, she left it lying there too long. In that case, he might have to take a peek.

The notepad remained on the table for two days before Lance picked it up. Brook was in the bathroom, soaking in a tub of hot water. As Lance read, understanding flickered across his face. Realizing these pages contained the descriptions of the people who had hurt her, he grabbed a second pad and began sketching, using her imagery as a basis. Soon, he had four rough drawings. He left his pad next to hers and waited for her reaction. It came soon.

Brook exited the bath, relaxed and feeling more herself. She ambled to the table and noticed the second pad lying next to her notepad. She paused a minute and then picked them both up. She froze. Staring from the top page was Jase, at least a likeness of him she recognized. Brook dropped the pad and turned to look around the room. Lance was seated in a chair by a window, reading. “You did this?” Brook asked, pointing towards the table.

“The sketches? Yes.”

“Why? How?” Brook stumbled over the words.

“I decided since you left the pad unprotected for two days that it didn’t contain anything too important, so I looked. I was wrong. It was very important. I almost left the whole thing alone but then I thought that maybe drawings would help. You know, when you finally can go to the police.”

Brook stared, first at Lance, and then back at the pad with the drawings. She picked it up and leafed through the pages. “Can you change these some? They’re not quite right.”

“Absolutely.” Lance stood. “Now?”

“Yes. Now.” Brook sat on the bench and leaned on the table. Lance sat next to her.

“Which one first?”

Running a hand over her face, she said, “Gina. Let’s do the easy one first. See how it goes.”

“Okay.” Lance sat with the picture of Gina he had previously drawn. “What first?”

“Her face is a little rounder, here, and here,” she pointed out the areas and Lance erased and redrew the lines.

“Her eyes are slightly closer together and her mouth fuller.”

Working in this way they finally reached a point when Brook sat straight and took the pad from him. “Yes! This is her. This is Gina.”

A tear trickled down her cheek and her jaw clenched, but she remained seated. In a flat voice, she simply said, "Jase next.”

It took several hours, but in the end, Brook claimed the pictures were perfect. She retired to the bathroom and Lance heard her sobbing quietly. He didn’t interrupt, but sat looking at the drawings; memorizing their faces. If he ever saw these animals, he knew he would kill them. His face was hard as a rock as he studied the images.