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When he pulled up in front of her mailbox, she dug her fingers into his side. Her cabin stood in the center of a ring of blackened and charred trees and foliage. Soggy, yellow tape stirred in the breeze, waving a sorry welcome.
Jim steered his bike up to her front porch and cut the engine. “Looks like a war zone.”
She lifted the helmet from her head and shook out her hair. “There goes my little hideaway. The cabin is completely visible from the road now.”
“You can replant, but give yourself a clear view of the road this time.”
“I hope everything doesn’t smell like smoke in there.” She slid from the bike.
“You’ll probably have to air it out and clean up.”
She jogged up the two steps to the front door and tried the handle. “Great. It’s unlocked.”
She pushed open the front door and hovered on the threshold, sniffing the air. “It doesn’t smell too bad and I don’t see any damage from the fire hoses or flame retardant.”
“You should check your studio. You’re probably going to have to clean all those windows in there.”
Jim left the door open, and she edged down the hallway toward the studio. The door had been left open. Had the firefighters come inside her place? She never left that door open.
Pushing the door back, she scanned the room. Her current canvas was in place and undamaged, but Jim had been right. Streaks of flame retardant and rivulets of water clouded the glass walls of the studio, practically blocking the view to the outside world.
“I’m going to have to get a professional window cleaner in here to take care of this mess, unless my cousin Annie can do it.”
“Add a professional landscaper to clean up the mess outside.”
Scarlett wandered around the room, unease tickling the back of her neck. She flipped through some canvases and took a step back to scan one wall covered with her landscape paintings.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure. Something feels off.”
“Something missing? You do have an inventory, don’t you?”
She tapped her head. “The inventory is up here.”
“And?”
“Can’t put my finger on it yet.”
“Make sure you check all your stuff, and if there’s anything missing, make a report.”
Scarlett paused in front of an easel with her current project clipped onto it, the smell of paint tickling her nose. Glancing at the tray, she noticed a pot of open black paint and a dirty brush.
Her pulse thrummed in her throat as she ran a fingertip across the damp ends of the brush. “This is weird.”
“What?” Jim joined her at the easel.
“There’s an open pot of paint and a used brush. I always clean up when I’m done.”
“You mean someone broke into your place, came in here and painted a picture?” He scratched his head.
She dabbed her fingers across the painting on the easel. “Maybe someone just wanted to be helpful and finish this work for me.”
She barked out a short, dry laugh and licked her lips. She turned toward the wall of paintings again, her gaze scanning each row.
“Does the second row from the bottom look crooked to you?”
Jim squeezed past her, and his head swung from side to side. “Yeah, it’s this bunch here on the right.”
He shuffled to the right and reached up to adjust the frames on the wall. “Scarlett!”
She jumped at the sharpness of his tone. “What’s wrong?”
“You might want to have a look at this forest painting.”
She tripped forward, grabbing onto Jim’s arm as she leaned toward the painting.
She gasped, her fingers digging into his biceps. Someone had altered one of her landscapes—adding three stick figures at the edge of the forest, holding hands.
Chapter Ten
A chill snaked down Scarlett’s spine, and she took a step back, dropping her hold on Jim.
Jim leaned in for a closer look. “You know what that’s supposed to be, don’t you?”
Scarlett swore and pushed past him. She grabbed the painting from the wall. “Some crude representation of the Timberline Trio. It’s sick. Who would do this?”
“Put the frame down and don’t touch the paintbrush or paint.”
