Since I Found You

by Ashelyn Drake

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Since I Found You

  Ashelyn Drake

  Copyright © 2018 Ashelyn Drake

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual places or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, or recorded without written permission from the author.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks mentioned in this book. Trademarks are not sponsored or endorsed by the trademark owners.

  Cover design © Uplifting Designs

  Contents

  1. Alex

  2. Whitney

  3. Alex

  4. Whitney

  5. Alex

  6. Whitney

  7. Alex

  8. Whitney

  9. Alex

  10. Whitney

  11. Alex

  12. Whitney

  13. David

  14. Whitney

  15. Alex

  16. Whitney

  17. Alex

  18. Whitney

  19. Alex

  20. Whitney

  21. Alex

  22. Whitney

  23. Alex

  24. Whitney

  25. Alex

  26. Whitney

  27. Alex

  28. Whitney

  29. Alex

  Also by Ashelyn Drake

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Alex

  Nothing ruins a Monday afternoon quite like going out on a bogus assignment. I don’t have anything against David. He’s a great news editor, but I feel like he doesn’t trust me to cover any real stories. I always get the stories that barely merit the term “newsworthy.” The only exception was covering a fire downtown, although he made me rewrite that piece with Emily’s help. Man, I do not want to do that again. She’s gorgeous and a total flirt, which wouldn’t be bad if she wasn’t already involved with David. I thought he’d give me some good stories to cover after I blew him away with that rewrite, but here I am pulling into Bonnie’s Boutique, a florist on Crystal Street, to find out about a wall that was vandalized in the middle of the night.

  I park out front, noticing the place is busy for being on a road that mostly consists of apartment complexes instead of businesses. I squint against the early October sun as I step out of my Honda Accord. There’s a crowd of people gathered outside in front of the stone storefront. The place is actually an old house that was built in the 1800s. At least that’s what my research yielded before I left the newsroom. The owner, Bonnie Hershel, lives upstairs and runs the florist shop on the first floor. From what I’ve heard, business hasn’t been good to Mrs. Hershel, not since her husband passed away two years ago. He was the life of this place, even though he named it after her.

  “Excuse me,” I say, walking over to the group of people huddled around the wall. A few step aside, and I get my first glimpse of the vandalism. I can’t think of it as graffiti because it looks more like an advertisement for the florist, something you’d commission an artist to paint to drum up business. It’s absolutely breathtaking. Flowers of every color fill the space, looking so realistic I almost breathe in deeply to see what they smell like.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” a woman carrying a sleeping infant asks me.

  “Yes,” I say, taking out my iPhone and snapping a few pictures from different angles.

  I have to wait several more minutes to get inside the shop. As it turns out, Mrs. Hershel is putting together fall themed floral arrangements for the annual street fair that Priority hosts every October. It’s become almost as popular as Halloween around here. All the local businesses display wreaths on their doors, while homeowners set out potted flower arrangements. There’s a parade, and kids can dress up in their nicest clothes and throw flower petals everywhere. I’m not sure how or when the tradition began, but Priority’s been doing it for as long as I can remember.

  I step into the shop, the bell on the door jingling to announce me. Mrs. Hershel looks up from the register and wipes her brow.

  “Has the crowd died down any out there?” she asks.

  I glance behind me, noticing the parking lot is emptying out. “Yeah, I think most people are heading off to work now.”

  “Oh, good.” She sits down on the stool behind the register. “Not that I’m not grateful for the business, but these old feet are sore. Are you here for a wreath or a potted arrangement?”

  I step up to the register and extend my hand, which she takes along with a quirk of her head. “Mrs. Hershel, I’m Alex Wilkes. I’m a reporter with For the Record.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize the paper was sending anyone by,” she says. “Is this about the street festival?”

  “No. I’m here to talk to you about the mural on the outside wall.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “That’s the common opinion,” I say, tapping my phone screen and pulling up the voice recorder. “Do you mind if I record this?”

  She shakes her head. “Go right ahead.”

  I press the red button to begin the recording. “Mrs. Hershel, what can you tell me about the mural?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. Like I told the police, I came into work yesterday morning, and it was just there.” She shrugs. “The wall was blank when I closed shop the day before. Whoever painted it, did it at night.”

  A nighttime artist? “So you have no idea who did it?”

  “No.”

  “And you didn’t report the vandalism to the police until a day later. Why did you wait?” No matter how nice it is, it’s still technically vandalism if Mrs. Hershel didn’t okay it.

  “At first, I wasn’t sure if I should report it at all. I mean, business has really picked up since this appeared. Felicity Flowers usually gets all the business for the street festival, but thanks to people coming to see the mural, everyone is buying their wreaths and arrangements here. I realized I want to know who painted it so I can thank them.”

  “Do you think someone did this to intentionally help your business?” I ask.

  “I can’t really say for sure, but if they did, it was mighty kind of them. If I’m being honest, I was considering closing shop. The past few months have not been kind to me. The business was hemorrhaging money. I had to throw away flowers I couldn’t sell.” She inhales a shaky breath. “Samuel would have been sixty-eight the day the mural showed up. There’s a part of me that wonders if he’s somehow behind it.” She gives a small laugh. “You can imagine the reaction the police had when I said that.”

  I can’t imagine a woman in her late sixties talking about gifts from the grave would go over too well with the Priority Police. That’s probably why they haven’t found who did this. It’s not really
a high priority considering Mrs. Hershel doesn’t want to press charges, and after her explanation for the mural’s sudden appearance, I wouldn’t doubt some of the officers think she’s just a crazy woman missing her dead husband.

  “What time did you notice the mural?” I ask her.

  “I always wake up at five thirty. I was making my morning coffee upstairs when I peeked out the window. I wanted to see if I needed to water the plants out front or not. I saw the colors on the mural first. I thought some neighborhood kids had gotten my shop with a paint gun or something, so I went outside to see the damage. That’s when I found it.”

  “Was there anything unusual left outside? Any clues at all as to who might have done this?”

  She shakes her head. “Not that I saw at least. The police looked around some, but I don’t think they’re too concerned since I’m not.”

  I click off the recording and reach inside my jacket pocket for a business card. “If you think of anything you might have forgotten to mention, please feel free to call me.”

  She takes the card and studies it. “Mr. Wilkes.”

  “Please, call me Alex.”

  “Alexander,” she says with a smile. “I know my Samuel isn’t really the one who did this. I’d like you to find this person. They did a nice thing for an old woman. I really would like to say thank you.”

  Is she asking me to help her find who did this? “I’m sure the police are looking,” I say.

  “No, I don’t think they are. They have more important things to do, which I understand. But this is important to me. So please, go look around out there. See what you can find. I have a feeling there’s more to this story than we’re seeing.”

  Something about the way she said that piques my interest. What if there is a story here? A real story that the police are overlooking? If I can crack it, I might be able to make a name for myself at the paper.

  “Mrs. Hershel, I promise you I’ll do everything I can to find out who did this.”

  She smiles at me as I walk outside.

  I survey the parking lot, but nothing out of the ordinary catches my eye, so I walk around, taking a closer look at the ground. There aren’t any paint splatters, let alone a footprint. Not that I thought it would be that easy. The police would have noticed something as obvious as that. I step toward the painting, pressing my hand to it. It’s textured from layers of paint used to create the lifelike appearance. Whoever did this has access to a lot of paint in a variety of colors. The odd thing is that they did this right under Mrs. Hershel’s nose. Literally. She was sleeping upstairs and never heard a thing.

  This road doesn’t get much traffic at night being that it’s a cul de sac. I could see how no one would see someone doing this in the dark, but how didn’t Mrs. Hershel hear anything? I step back into the store, the bell jingling again.

  Mrs. Hershel looks up at me. “Did you forget something, dear?”

  “I was just curious about something. Were you home the night the mural appeared?”

  She nods and turns her head to the side. Pushing aside her wavy gray hair, she shows me a hearing aid attached to her ear. “I take these off at night, of course.”

  Of course. I wave and walk back out. I’m clearly not going to figure this out right now. Not on my own at least. Besides, I suspect David wants me to write the article as a mystery. It certainly has gotten people’s attention already, so it would be good for the paper to keep the mystery going. I check out the mural one more time before heading to my car. Something about it is mesmerizing. Not just the brush strokes or the lifelike details. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but I know I need to find the person who painted it.

  Chapter Two

  Whitney

  I walk around the classroom, weaving between the easels as the students work. In the four years I’ve been teaching at Priority High School, I’ve had the privilege of meeting quite a few talented artists. And I envy the way they see the world. So full of possibilities. So vibrant in color and life. They all aspire to be famous painters one day, a dream I gave up on a long time ago.

  “What do you think, Ms. Stillwater?” Noah Thornberg asks as I approach his easel. “I feel like I’m not quite capturing the...” He pauses and squints at the painting.

  I study it, cocking my head. It’s his desktop complete with his geometry textbook and half-eaten turkey sandwich. “The essence of the piece?” I volunteer.

  “Yeah, that.”

  “Tell me what you want the piece to convey.” His technique is good. No one would doubt he has real artistic ability. The problem is, his vision is lacking, and it’s my job to make him see that for himself.

  “I don’t know. I guess the loneliness of the discarded objects?” It comes out more as a question than an answer.

  “Your sandwich and textbook are lonely? Hmm...” I walk over to the desk and pick up the book. “Poor, book. Are you lonely because Noah hasn’t done his homework in days?”

  Noah cracks a smile, which was my intention. “What else can a still life of a book and sandwich mean?”

  I carefully place the book back in the position it was in before I touched it. “Why did you choose these objects?” I ask, lacing my fingers in front of me.

  Noah shrugs. “You told us to paint a still life using only objects we had on our person,” he says, trying to paraphrase my instructions.

  I nod. “That’s correct. But why these?” I gesture to his backpack on the desk chair. “That hardly looks empty to me.”

  “It’s not. I have other books, some pens, and my phone in there.”

  “So why not draw your phone?” I motion to Becky’s painting, which is stationed directly behind Noah.

  Becky turns around and smiles at us. Her painting shows her phone with a selfie of her on the screen. It was taken with a Snapchat filter, giving her deer antlers. “I wanted to take another stab at a self-portrait,” Becky says, “but I’m totally still doing what you assigned, Ms. S.”

  “You are, Becky. It shows your creativity and your personality. I love it.”

  Becky smiles and gets back to work, but Noah frowns.

  “Should I start over?” he asks, scowling at his painting.

  “Let me ask you again. Why did you choose these two objects?” I already know the answer. He told the entire class upon entering the room.

  “I guess because they ruined my day.”

  I wave my hand in the air, motioning for him to continue.

  “I didn’t get to finish eating my lunch because I had to study for my geometry test, which I’m sure I bombed anyway.” He puts his brush down on the easel tray.

  “Okay, good. Now we’re getting somewhere.” I move so I’m standing next to him, facing the painting. “When you look at your painting, what is it missing from what you just told me?”

  “This awful feeling that I’m a failure.” He forces out a small laugh. “Although, the fact that the painting sucks so much does make me relive that feeling.”

  “It doesn’t...suck,” I say, using his word. “The problem is that the painting brings up that feeling in you instead of conveying it to everyone else.” I turn back to the book. “Yes, this book is covered nicely, as it should be, but how do you really see it?”

  “Torn, used, covered in frustration after hours of studying and nothing sinking in.” He narrows his eyes at his canvas. “If I fray the edges here... Maybe write the words across the top but have some letters faded away. And the sandwich...” He points to the empty space between the book and the sandwich on the canvas. “I could have a discarded piece of limp lettuce that fell out and was left behind.”

  I pat him on the shoulder. “Now that would convey a message to me.”

  Noah turns toward me. “Thanks, Ms. Stillwater. I don’t think I would have figured that all out on my own.”

  “The important thing to remember is that art doesn’t always mean the same thing to the artist and the observer. You might intend to paint this in a melancholy way that mimics your f
rustration with geometry. But the way you described the changes you’re planning to make reads differently to me, and that’s okay.”

  His brows pull together in the middle. “How do you see it?”

  “I see a very determined young man who doesn’t give up, no matter if it’s something he enjoys or not. And I think that’s beautiful.” I smile at him, and the bell rings, signaling the end of the school day. “Pack up your things, people. We’ll continue this tomorrow.”

  I return to my desk, and as Becky passes me, she says, “You’re the only teacher Noah likes. He’ll never tell you that, but I thought you should know. None of the other teachers seem to get him, but you do.”

  I smile. “See you tomorrow, Becky.” For a while now, I’ve suspected Becky has a crush on Noah. He’s completely oblivious to it, but I won’t be surprised if she finds a way to let him know one of these days.

  I pack up my things and head to the mail room. Elana Cambridge, my best friend and fellow faculty member, walks in right behind me.

  “Do you ever check your mail in the morning like we’re supposed to?” she asks me, noticing my mailbox is full, while hers only has two pieces of paper inside it.

  “No time. I’m busy setting up the studio before classes begin for the day.” I flip through the stack of papers, tossing most into the recycling bin to the left of the mailboxes. “Between us, how did Noah Thornberg do on the test today?”

  Elana sighs, the air making her dark bangs lift. “Not well. He’s an artist for sure, but math eludes him.”