Billy's gone.
Ruby Buckley's world ended with him.
But Hawkins isn't done with her yet.
When strange deaths begin again, Ruby is pulled into the heart of the storm. Between shadowy nightmares, the town's newest outcast, and someone she was never s...
( songs for the chapter ) landslide // fleetwood mac kiss me // sixpence none the richer faithfully // journey
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Chicago, 2001
The gallery smelled like fresh paint and coffee that had been reheated too many times.
Ruby stood a few steps back from the largest piece on the far wall, arms folded loosely over her middle, weight shifted onto one hip in a way she hadn't quite shaken in the past few months.
The canvas dominated the room without trying to, dark blues and soft grays layered with something almost luminous beneath, like light caught under water. The longer you looked, the more it changed.
Will always did that.
"People are going to stand in front of this one for a long time," Robin said, circling the piece with her hands on her hips, head tilted. "Like, block-traffic long. I'm talking emotional congestion."
El nodded solemnly beside her. "It makes my chest feel... bigger."
"That's because it's about breath," Will said, a little shy despite the fact that every single time, this happened. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking between them. "About learning how to take it again."
Ruby smiled.
She remembered a time when Will barely spoke about his work at all. When the things he carried lived too deep to put words to. Now, he talked about them like they were old friends, not painless, but familiar. Survivable.
"You did it again," Ruby said softly. "This one's going to sell before the night's over."
Will groaned. "I told you not to say that."
Robin snapped her fingers. "Too late. You've cursed it. Some hedge fund guy with a tragic divorce is already on his way."
El frowned. "Why does he have to be divorced?"
Robin waved a hand. "Vibes."
Ruby laughed, the sound easy, warm. It still surprised her sometimes, how natural laughter felt now. Not borrowed. Not cautious. Hers.
She glanced around the gallery.
Sunlight spilled through the tall front windows, catching dust motes and turning them gold. White walls. Clean lines. A few familiar faces drifting between pieces, murmuring softly, wine glasses in hand. Someone near the front desk was asking about prices in a low voice. El had already clocked it, posture straightening, attention snapping into place.
"I'll handle it," she said, calm and capable, and headed off before Robin could offer commentary.
"She runs this place," Robin said fondly. "I just talk loudly and point at art."
