by Dana Marton
“I can’t wait to tell Bertha. I’ll help her make a room for you next to mine.”
“I love you, Peanut.” She hung up the phone as her body screamed, invisible powers pulling her toward the loft. She needed to paint, get the darkness out, and get it over with. But first, she had to get rid of the detective.
She unlocked the door and yanked it open before he had a chance to ring the doorbell, the last thing her blinding headache needed.
“Miss Price.” He gave a curt nod, his expression closed, his tall frame and his fighter’s stance more than a little intimidating.
His face really did have some interesting lines, especially the strong jaw. And that cerulean gaze too drew the eye. She imagined that another woman, one he wasn’t trying to pin any crimes on, would find his masculine energy attractive. She had, in her dreams.
But not now. Now she was just pissed at him.
“You had no right to talk to my father.”
He cocked his head as he watched her. “Interesting that you wouldn’t share something as big as this with him. Why is that?”
“I didn’t want to worry him.”
“You hide too much,” he observed coldly.
Part of her wanted to slink away, to hide from him. But she was done accepting defeat. She would face down her demons and Jack Sullivan today. Tomorrow, she would go and see her daughter.
He towered on her doorstep, ready to go at her.
She hadn’t played much sports since college, but she figured the best defense still had to be a good offense. She stuck her chin out as she said, “I want my paintings back.”
As much as she hated those monstrosities, she hated someone else having them even more. If he hadn’t shown them to anyone yet, she wanted to keep it that way.
He raised an eyebrow, looking utterly unimpressed with her newfound assertiveness as he pushed by her. “I brought you something from your daughter.” He handed her a plastic box and a piece of paper she hadn’t even seen him holding.
She closed the door against the cold and took what he was offering.
Cookies and a drawing, with “I miss you MOM” scribbled on top. Warmth spread through her chest for a second, then a blast of cold as her gaze flew to his. “She doesn’t know, does she?”
He gave her a hard look. “I don’t entertain five-year-olds with tales of serial killers.”
She relaxed a little, then snapped when he still kept the displeased look on his face. “What? You can assume the worst of me, but I can’t do the same of you?”
“She’s a good kid,” he said.
Which, for some reason, got her dander up. “And that’s a surprise because I’m a crazed criminal? Are you here hoping for a confession?”
He watched her carefully, his full attention on her. “Anything you want to tell me, I’ll be happy to hear it.”
“I don’t have time for you. I’m in the middle of a project.”
She had been working on a new painting earlier but had not planned on doing more today. She didn’t like working with artificial light. It messed up her colors.
“Make time. Because I’ll be coming back as many times as it takes. Count on it. Hope you don’t have plans to leave town.”
“I was going to stay with my father for a couple of days.”
He reached up to unbutton his coat.
Oh God, he can’t possibly mean to stay. Her gaze slipped to his hands, the scars that crisscrossed his skin, to the tape that covered his missing fingernails. His knuckles looked like they’d been busted a couple of times. His fingers moved stiffly. He’d never be able to paint, she thought for a weird, disjointed moment, and felt sorry for him. She shook that off. He was the enemy.
Which he proved by saying, “I don’t think so. For the time being, you need to stay here where we can reach you with further questions as needed.”
As his wide shoulders emerged from the coat, tense, she imagined every muscle in his body was coiled, the predator ready to leap at a moment’s notice. And she was the prey he’d set his eyes on, God help her.
Her headache pulsed. She had to paint. She’d stood up to the detective; now time to get rid of him.
“I really do have work to do. You can let yourself out.” She walked toward the stairs.
Instead of taking the hint and leaving, he followed her all the way up to the loft. “You can talk and work at the same time.”
Not when she was like this.
She looked around, anywhere but him, her stomach rolling. Her abstracts lined the loft, a sign of progress that encouraged her. She could do what she had to. She faced the man and put some force into her voice. “This is harassment. You need to leave.”
He stiffened, dark thunder crossing his face, anger tightening his jaw. He stepped forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. “When you let Blackwell into your life,” he threw the words into her face, “you’re letting in a killer. Whatever sick hold he has on you… He is a dangerous man. Don’t you at least care about your daughter?”
Fury washed over her, and she shoved against him. “You know nothing about me and my love for my daughter!” She stabbed his chest with her index finger, pushed forward, went on the offensive.
“Blackwell is a sick killer,” she agreed. “Maybe I’m sick too. But so are you. You’re so obsessed with the man you can’t see straight. You’re a no-good, messed-up, obsessed cop. Now get your hands off me.”
She got right up in his face, rose to her toes so they were eye to eye and he could see that she meant every word, that she was done cowering before him.
“Fine. And you’re a freaked-out, loopy artist.” For a moment, raw heat flashed in his gaze and his hands tightened on her arms. He held her like that for a split second, their faces inches apart, both of them breathing a little hard with their own fury. Then he set her apart and let her go.
“I will get him, one way or the other.” His tone carried warning.
She wanted to point out that Blackwell was not here, so he should look elsewhere, but suddenly the dam broke and a torrent of images flooded her. Her headache intensified to the point of being unbearable, her peripheral vision darkening.
She strode to a shelf, grabbed a prepped canvas board, and slammed it onto an empty easel, hoping he would leave at last, now that he’d done his best to intimidate her. She couldn’t fight him anymore, not right now. What she faced now, what dark force threatened to drown her was bigger than the detective and his accusations.
Dizziness swirled through her, too much to handle suddenly. She reached for the wall to steady herself but got the detective's arm instead.
“What is it?” His tone was cold and hard, his eyes full of suspicion.
"Bad headache." She rubbed her temple. “Migraine.”
“A play for sympathy? I’m afraid that doesn’t work with me. Why don’t you just tell me the truth?”
“Why don’t you leave?” She wanted the words to be an order but found herself nearly begging.
“Because I don’t have yet what I came for.”
For a moment, the pain that sliced through her head was blinding. Her stomach rolled. She squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, his face was once again just inches from hers.
His cerulean gaze held hers for a long moment, his thoughts undecipherable. He pushed her down onto her ratty old armchair, then crossed over to the sink and brought her a glass of water. “Do you have some pain pills you could take?”
She took the glass and drank, refusing to let her hands shake. “They don’t make pills for what I have.” The antidepressants hadn’t helped either, so she’d stopped taking them a long time ago.
He took the empty glass from her. “It’s the stress. Once you confess, you’ll feel better.”
Hopelessness washed over her, a wave of misery, then anger, which she liked better. She’d painted him in the grave just a few weeks ago. She shouldn’t have a spell again this soon. Sometimes she went months and months in between. She’d been hoping, damn him, th
at she would never have another gruesome vision.
“Has Blackwell threatened you?” he asked with concern that was probably pretend. “I can offer protection if you turn prosecution witness. The offer still stands.”
She barely heard him as nervous energy pushed her to her feet. She walked to the cluttered table by the wall and reached for her palette. “Please leave.”
She didn’t want to let him see how bad it was, what it did to her. If he saw, if anyone ever saw, they’d stick her in the loony bin. And then she would lose her daughter forever.
But he stayed where he stood. And when she couldn’t take the images in her head, the tension and the pain any longer, she squeezed a dab of soulless black onto the palette, then a row of other colors, leaving the crimson last.
And then she painted.
~~~***~~~
Chapter Five
Whatever had hold of her scared the spit out of her. But she stood her ground in front of the canvas and worked. While her posture was rigid, her hand moved in a fluid motion, concentration on her face.
The fire she’d attacked him with was gone. That had been interesting. Made him respond in more ways than one—his body was still buzzing with the sudden contact. She was such a study in contrast, fear and courage, fire and innocence. She had the looks, but layers too, and talent and depth. And one seriously sick friend.
“Talk to me, Ashley.”
But she was no longer aware of him, creating in a trance, in the grip of a vision only available to her. Or doing a hell of a job faking it.
The artist in her studio. Except he’d imagined the creative process differently. He would have thought artists got joy out of creating. She clearly didn’t.
“Ignoring me isn’t going to work.”
But she kept doing it.
For a second, he looked away from her to the wall of windows. Outside, the darkness seemed extra thick tonight, smothering the landscape rather than settling on it. Even the pale moon looked brittle in the sky. And there was something in the house too, some strange tension he couldn’t identify that was separate from the tension emanating from her.
Jack moved a step closer to shield her, his senses on full alert, his body tightening as if expecting an attack. But from where? He was pretty sure they were alone in the house, had made a point to glance in every open door he’d walked by.
Yet he felt an odd need to protect her, although he couldn’t have said from what. He shook his head to clear it. He was tired. He still wasn’t himself yet, not fully. He was building his body back, but it took time.
A small gasp escaping her lips drew his attention to her. The expression on her face was pure torture.
A chill skated down his spine as he watched. The touch of that icy finger felt so real that he whipped around. Nothing behind him.
His jaw muscles drew tight. Great. Now he was going to start acting strange? The shrink had said something like this might happen. PTSD.
Like hell. He rolled his shoulders. He wasn’t going to let Blackwell drive him crazy. He wasn’t going to let Blackwell win.
Ashley guided the brush across the canvas. She looked haunted and in pain. He didn’t like that he seemed to be responding to the despair she was drowning in. He didn’t want to pity her.
And he definitely didn’t want to want her.
Yet he’d thought about her. He’d thought about her in ways an investigator shouldn’t think about a suspect. Her pinup-girl body and her haunted eyes were a pretty potent combination.
The smell of paint and turpentine filled the air. It brought back all those jumbled memories of being in her house for the first time, of having just escaped from the grave and every inch of his body screaming in pain.
He rubbed a hand over his healing ribs as he watched her mix more colors. Her face tight, she winced every couple of seconds, as if the very act of painting hurt her. Then her hand stilled, and for a moment, she stared off somewhere beyond the easel.
“What is it?” He looked at the same blank wall, then moved closer to the canvas that now held a preliminary sketch of walls closing in a small space.
She loaded her brush and began filling out the details, her eyes darting between the blank wall and the painting, as if copying something that remained hidden to his senses. One of those visions she spoke of? Or was she trying to con him?
If she was faking it, she was a better actress than he’d ever seen in any movie.
He could play along for a little while. "What do you see?"
She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand, closing her eyes for a second. “A face.”
That didn’t make any sense. It couldn’t be real. Which didn’t mean she didn’t think it was. According to her father, the accident on the reservoir had messed her up pretty badly. Maybe her brain had been affected.
She made no sound save for tapping the brush on the palette from time to time. More shapes took form; objects materialized out of color alone. The interior of a dark, confined place took up most of the canvas. Clothes hung above a pile of boxes on the floor. Low in the right corner, stroke by stroke, a human form appeared.
"Who is that?"
His words could have been gunshots for the shock they gave her. As if she’d forgotten, in the space of a few minutes, that he was standing behind her. Her shoulders dropped. "Someone who can't be saved."
“How do you know him?”
“I don’t.”
Part of him responded to the strong emotions rolling off her—horror, dismay, fear—and his protective instincts rose. He set that ridiculous impulse aside. “How do you know where he is? How to paint him? Did Blackwell show you? Did he bring you pictures?”
She whirled on him with tears in her eyes, anger tightening her mouth. “The picture is in my head! Don’t you think I would stop it if I could? You really think I want this?”
He glanced back and forth between the canvas and the despair on her face. No, she didn’t look like she wanted any of this. For the first time, he wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t like it.
She turned back to the painting and lifted her brush again. By the time she completed the last finishing touches, her shoulders hung limp, fatigue rimming her eyes. She cleaned her brushes on autopilot, barely looking, stuck them in an old, stained spaghetti jar, then slumped into the lumpy armchair by the window, legs pulled up under her, arms wrapped around herself, looking out into the darkness without really seeing anything as far as he could tell.
“Go away,” she whispered.
When he was ready.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and snapped a dozen pictures of the painting. Then he stepped away from the easel to walk around the room, paying little attention to the large abstracts he didn’t understand, his gaze returning to the easel in the middle over and over again.
She sat with her eyes closed and her hands up to shade them from the light.
“Head still hurts?”
“It’ll be better in a minute.”
Not having the light in her eyes would probably help. He strode to the top of the stairs and flipped the switch. Some light still filtered up from downstairs, but the loft was lost in a twilight of semidarkness that surrounded them like a cocoon.
He could no longer see the painting clearly, but every detail had been etched into his mind, the entire image, and the way she’d created it.
His brain circled back to the same question over and over again. What had he just witnessed? A carefully choreographed performance was the only logical answer. He didn’t believe in psychic phenomena.
The police departments he’d worked for over the years often received calls from psychics on high-profile cases. “I see a body near water.” “A body near a cabin.” All general predictions, bound to come true once in a blue moon in an area that was riddled with creeks and lakes, or in woods where hunting cabins abounded.
Out of a hundred calls, one would hit close enough for the media to make a big deal out of it and it would be splashed all
over the news as “proof.” Even a blind squirrel found an acorn now and then—law of statistics—was his opinion.
And if Ashley Price wasn’t psychic… Blackwell had to be somehow behind her convincing little play. He walked around, trying to figure out their game.
As he passed by the bank of windows, he caught sight of a dark figure outside, illuminated by moonlight at the edge of the trees, and the last small doubts he might have had disappeared.
Blackwell.
Instantly, his entire body was alert. "I need some air. You stay inside."
She still had her eyes closed. She didn’t even acknowledge him, too busy to be pretending to be off in her own little world of dire visions.
Had the bastard come to watch the performance? To make sure she was convincing?
Jack brushed past her and took the stairs two steps at a time. He ran through the house, burst through the door, nearly slipping on the slick steps outside. He caught his balance and set off across the snow.
The shadow man took off, slip-sliding on a patch of ice. Jack pushed forward, sucking in his breath against the cold. He’d left his gloves in his car. He shoved his hands under his armpits as he ran. He’d need his fine motors skills when the time came to go for his gun and squeeze the trigger.
Adrenaline filled him, and elation.
Now. He would have the bastard this time.
The man up ahead jumped a ditch and scrambled up a snowy incline. He slipped back. Jack put everything he had into an all-out dash, caught up, and vaulted on top of the rising figure.
"I didn't do anything!"
Not Brady's voice. Definitely, not. This one sounded much younger.
Disappointment slammed into him like a fist.
He flipped the gangly boy onto his back and held him by the front of his down jacket with both hands. "Who the hell are you? What are you doing out here?"
The kid, about fourteen or fifteen, stared up at him, wide-eyed and breathing hard from his dash, scared now. "They dared me…go out to the creek in the dark. Where that cop was buried."
“They who?”
“My friends.”