'How can I help?'
How could Drake help? He was strapped down and powerless, though I didn't say that to him. I could only imagine how impotent he felt right now. "Find out what you can from the nurses and Dr. Pana if you see him again. He's the key here."
"Be careful, everyone, and remember that Rent-A-Kid is watching us. Don't raise too much suspicion."
***
The wind whipped my ponytail across my face and chilled me to the bone, but still I didn't move to open the door to the studio. I couldn't. My plan had sounded good in the comfort of Luke and Lucy's suite, but now, standing alone to face the remains of my life's work... my enthusiasm for this mission waned.
'Are you okay?'
"No, not really. Whoever burned down this studio turned my dreams to ash as well. I mean, I still have school, but without my art...."
A flash of emotion seared me, and a memory stormed my senses. The taste of the sea, the feel of the sun and wind, the surf under my board... wait, not my board, Drake's. I'd never been surfing, but in that moment I knew exactly how it felt to ride a wave and let go of all the pain and fear, all the social expectations and the need to hide my true self in public.
In one blow, that dream died as they dragged me—him—away.
A tear slid down my cheek. I wasn't the only one mourning the loss of a dream. "I'm sorry."
'You're not alone, I just wanted you to know that. And someday, when I have my powers back and am free, I'm going to do some serious damage to the people who've hurt you.'
His words released in me a primal urge to feel safe and protected, to belong to someone in a more intimate way than I'd ever experienced before. Still, in that moment he was just a voice, and I had to do this on my own.
I opened the door and stepped in. Raw pain filled me at the sight of my painting.
'Show me what it looked like, before the fire.'
His request surprised me, but I did as he asked. With eyes closed, I projected the exact details of the painting I had poured my soul into. Just as I had experienced his love of surfing in a visceral way, he shared not just the visual beauty of my work, but the love and passion with which I had dedicated myself to it.
'Thank you. Now, it will never truly be gone.'
I choked back a sob and went to Mr. K's office. I pulled my sketchbook out of my book bag and ran my hand over the cover with the gold emblem, then opened it to the sketch I'd drawn from his mind the last time I'd seen him.
The box had been important. It had to be here somewhere.
I searched his desk, his cubby and his metal filing cabinet, but found nothing of note. His office had survived the fire with less damage than the studio, but it didn't reveal any secrets that would help. Frustrated, I fell into his chair and put my head on his metal desk. That's when I noticed the painting on the wall. It had been moved and hung slightly askew.
No way. That was too clichéd even for Mr. K. But... what if?
I went over and moved aside the painting. Sure enough, he had a safe.
Now what? What combination of numbers would be most important to Mr. K? I thought back to all the times I'd read his mind for assignments. Piece by piece, I recalled numbers that stood out. 4-15-70, the date he'd lost his wife and child in a freak accident.
The safe clicked open and inside sat my box.
I ran my hands over the delicate detail of the carving; he'd done the work himself. Grief threatened to overcome me. I missed him so much. No one had ever understood me or my passions the way he had.
The box didn't open on the first try. It had been locked, but I couldn't find a spot for the key. The box didn't have a keyhole, but an emblem—fit to complement the one on my journal—adorned its front.
Using a metal letter opener from the desk, I pried the emblem off my sketchbook and inserted it into the emblem on the box. With a firm twist, it opened. I held my breath in anticipation of what I would find.
Nothing. The box was empty.
I turned it upside down, as if gravity would magically spill the secrets I'd hoped it would contain, but of course, nothing fell out.
Crushed, I couldn't contain the tears anymore. Sobs tore through me and I unleashed all my rage and fear and grief. I nearly threw the box across the room, but stopped myself in time. Mr. K had made this; it was all I had left of him.
"What am I going to do, Drake? I can't live with the loss of both Mr. K and my art."
'We'll find a way, Sam. I promise. Have you checked for any secret compartments in the box? When I lived in foster care I had to hide things important to me, and that's how I did it.'
Excitement overcame me and I looked on the box with new eyes. The inside didn't seem as deep as it should have been. Using the same letter opener, I loosened the bottom on all sides until it popped off.
A letter lay in the compartment, and it had my name written on it in a familiar scrawl.