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Today has been much of the same thus far, too. Except for the excitement coursing through me.
I’m thinking. Planning. Already forming each piece in my mind.
And while I’m divided between two subjects, my original and private muse, they both revolve around predators.
Human. Animal. Both beasts led by different impulses.
Stepping inside my studio, I turn on the lights and then walk to the window, pulling apart the curtains. At once the room brightens, the small rays dancing across each finished painting as well as the canvas still sitting on an easel at the center.
Just like all the others in this room.
My inspiration since the nightmares began has been a faceless man and the chaos that surrounds him. His settings are always dark like the room I see in my dreams—some with blood and some black as night—the lingering emotions of fear coming across each stroke as death lies at his feet in different forms. His weapons also vary.
A knife.
A gun.
His bloodied hands.
But the one that has always worried me, made me question my own sanity, is the face in profile where drops of red come from his mouth and stain his white shirt. That one stays inside the room’s closet; it’s never to be seen by anyone but me.
Looking down at Mr. Pickles, I arch my head toward the unfinished one where the man I’m calling the “Gate’s Keeper” stands at the top of a mountain of bodies, no faces on any of them. “You think this would scare Theodore if he saw it? Too much for a show?” His answer is a bark, a deep one that shakes his little body. “I agree. This is morbid.”
Then why do I keep coming back? Why would I even consider this? Questions I have no answer for. I’m also not ready to stop.
Something beckons me. Something controls me.
Another yip and I look down, bending a bit to scratch his head.
“Sticking to the original thought it is, then.” Standing back to my full height, I grab the half-done painting and place it against the farthest wall with the others before I start doing inventory. The Astor Gallery wants seven, and I have everything I need except a few paint supplies I need to stock up on. “Feel like going for a ride, or being lazy on the couch?”
As the last word leaves my mouth, my stomach rumbles. It’s already a little past five by the time I finished with today’s mission, and when I turn to head toward the door, my dog takes off like a bat out of hell.
His growls lead me to the kitchen where he’s standing in front of the back door, scratching at it.
“What the heck is wrong with you?” I’m rushing toward him when the doorknob jiggles and my instincts kick in. “Who the hell is there?” I yell out, and the movements stop and a few seconds later Mr. Pickles relaxes, sitting with his back facing me. A protective position. “It’s okay, boy. Let me just check.”
There’s a small window at the door with a roman shade that gives me privacy, and I pull it up, giving me sight to the vast backyard. There’s no one there, but I do find a note on the ground. It’s made out to me in that same stationary that Elise uses and I find a little tacky.
Why was she here?
Opening the door, I find the keys I’d given her half broken in the lock. She’s been trying to come inside. Makes me wonder how many times in the past she’s done this too.
I pick up the note and open it, reading the two lines that make my blood go from ice to pure fire.
Congratulations on signing yesterday, Gabriella.
Smart move on your behalf.
I’ll be in touch for both my payment and your help with Theodore.
Best Friends For Life.
XoXo
I’m on autopilot when I walk back inside while pulling out my cell phone. His number is the one I click, and it’s his voice that picks up after the second ring.
“I didn’t think I’d hear from you today, Gabriella.” Theodore’s voice comes through the line, his timbre always smooth as whiskey. “It’s a nice surprise.”
