The Park at Sunrise Read Online Free PDF

at closing time.
    I turned my back to that window and sat resolutely on a mismatched barstool at a graffiti-covered table with the phone book and a cup of plain black coffee, house blend. I'm not a coffee snob. I can barely tell the difference between one grade and another, and this morning all I needed was something hot to warm me from the inside out.
    It took about two seconds with the Yellow Pages to realize that, of course, Jason's gallery was called Sunrise and was located just around the corner in the old part of town where vehicles were prohibited and college kids hung out back in the day. On the way out, I chanced a lingering glance at the love seat in the window and decided that looking at it wasn't as painful as I’d thought it would be. I'd bring Jason back here, some day, and we'd sit there and read Paul's book together. It would help the healing process.
    Leaving my car in the public parking lot, I strolled around the corner and dodged students until I arrived at the gallery. The front doors were locked, and it was an hour or so before the sign on the door said the gallery opened. I couldn't see any lights, but he had to be here. I followed the row of shops around until I came to a narrow alley. I tried not to breathe in the disgusting aroma of sour beer and rotting food from the Dumpsters as I slid and skidded along in my California-cool boots. I fully intended to force Jason to take me shopping for clothes and winter gear as soon as possible.
    The back door was clearly marked, for delivery purposes, I suppose, but it met my needs as well. The door was fortunately unlocked, and I didn't think twice about inviting myself in. The alley ran between two rows of shops and was quite narrow. Opening the door cast only the slightest bit of light into the gloom beyond, but it was enough that I noted the huddled outline of a figure in the room. Automatically, I ran my hand along the wall in search of a light switch.
    "Don't turn on the light." Jason's hoarse voice tore at my heart, and without consideration of what he asked, my fingers found the switch, and the room was flooded with brilliant light.
    I started across the room, intent on reaching Jason's side, but that proved more challenging than I expected, as I skidded immediately in what I thought at first must be a puddle of melted snow, only to realize upon glancing down that it was a sticky puddle of paint. I looked up to take in the rest of the room, which appeared to be divided between a storeroom and a studio, and found the whole place to be in shambles. Canvasses had been hurled everywhere, paint splattered walls and floors, and easels had been knocked over. Fear stalled my heart. Someone had broken in and trashed the place. Had Jason been here when it happened?
    Immediately, I rushed to Jason and gathered him in my arms. "Jason! What happened? Are you all right? Have you called the police?"
    He shoved me away so hard I fell on my ass on the floor. What the fuck? I decided to stay where I was, peering up at Jason, who glowered down at me.
    "No, I didn't call the police. What the hell could they do?"
    "Well," I offered in the placating tone I usually adopted with recalcitrant parents, "they could take a report for your insurance company." I studied his face as I spoke, taking in the red-rimmed eyes and full, puffy lips. The tracks of tears marred his flushed cheeks. I may be oblivious, but I'm not stupid. My not-so-agile mind came to the conclusion that Jason had not been assaulted, robbed, or any of the other horrifying things that had crossed my mind, at the same moment he apparently came to realize I wasn't planning on standing up.
    "Oh, come on, Morgan. You look ridiculous, and you're getting paint all over." He sounded anything but conciliatory.
    Not that I could blame him. Evidently, though I had everything worked out in my head in one of those bursts of intuitive knowledge that had freaked out my parents and professors alike over the years, Jason had still