Page 38 of Barinov

CADE

Costa Rica

12 days since Bella’s kidnapping.

A stench of wet earth and rust burns my nostrils.

The old dilapidated shack is even worse up close. Wood that’s warped and weeping, swollen from years of rot and rain. The front window is shattered. The other two are boarded up. Fuzzy gray mold creeps up the splintered walls and crooked beams in thick veins of velvet.

Roman lets out a dry hack as he steps in. He shuts the door, sealing off the world behind us with a low, final thud.

Inside, there’s almost nothing.

A single folding table with a laptop open on its surface. The screen black and lifeless.

An old easel—its frame cracked and sagging—stands in the center of the room. On it, crookedly leans a blank canvas. Mocking me with its emptiness. Below the easel, lies a neat little row of oil paint tubes all organized by color.

Sitting alone on the second table is a leather-bound sketch book. A graphite pencil lying perfectly horizontal across the cover.

That’s all.

Lex scoffs. “What the hell is this—”

He clamps his mouth shut when the screen flickers to life.

“Bella,” I breathe.

She’s in her room, free from her chains and restraints. She’s just standing there as still as a statue. A black silk nightgown hangs loose around her frame, dripping just off her shoulder. It shimmers faintly under the overhead light like oil on water.

There’s a bandage on her arm now. A stark white against all that black. But otherwise, she looks okay. No visible bruises or fresh cuts. The wound on her hairline has nearly healed. It’s like she’s just been living there untouched.

DING.

“Fuck,” Lex mutters, shoulders tense as he yanks out his phone. “Here we go.”

@LucaWasHere

Welcome boys, please step inside.

Where art is born and the truth won’t hide.

Before your eyes, two paths appear.

Choose once, my dear. For there’s no reverse here.

I crave a gallery, intimate and true.

My family captured by the hands of you.

Each trial, a choice. Each choice a scar.

No stepping back once you decide who you are.

So tell me now, don’t waste my time.

A painter’s soul or a sketcher’s line?

Choose with care. This is the start.