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Rayne blushed. The only thing that mattered to her was her painting. Just talking about her tentative efforts made her feel oddly vulnerable.
“I hope so.” Her blush deepened. “One day.”
“Me too. Only I use my camera, not a paintbrush, to create my masterpieces.”
Rayne arched her brow. Masterpieces? Nat obviously had no trouble believing in her own talents. “If you say so.”
“My point is that my pictures would be tragically boring if I stayed in my room all day just taking pictures of the same stupid stuff over and over.”
“Painting isn’t the same as taking pictures.”
“The medium may be different, but art is always the same.” Nat spread her arms in a dramatic gesture. “Passion. Agony. The soaring highs and brutal valleys of love.”
Rayne rolled her eyes. “And you’re going to find all that in the stables?”
“What could be more exciting than new life?”
Rayne stubbornly refused to be convinced. She didn’t want to accept that Nat’s words resonated deep inside her. Or to consider the fact that she might be using her art as a means to retreat from the world, not to explore it.
“I don’t paint animals.”
“I’ve seen what you paint.” Nat glanced toward the nearby Alps. “Mountains.”
Rayne flinched, hurt by the girl’s dismissive tone. “There’s nothing wrong with mountains.”
“No. They’re very fine mountains.” Nat grabbed her hands, giving them a squeeze. “But they only reveal your talent. If you want to be a great artist, you have to share your soul.”
CHAPTERTWO
Chicago, Illinois
Now
Rayne knelt in front of the suitcases that still had the tags from their trip overseas almost fourteen years ago. After . . .
She grimaced, her mind balking at the memory of her last few hours at St. Cecilia’s School for Girls and the sight of Natalie Scantlin lying on her bed, covered in blood. Once she’d flown back to the States, she’d headed straight to college, locking away the horrifying images, just as her belongings from that time had been locked in this attic.
But the moment she’d seen Tina Champagne’s picture and the lurid headline splattered across the front page of a scandal rag, she’d been sharply reminded of the gift Lucy had sent to her for her graduation. It’d been packed up with all her other belongings and shipped to Chicago. She had a sudden urge to discover exactly what it was so she could send a message to Lucy and thank her.
Better late than never, she wryly conceded, opening the largest of the suitcases. She wrinkled her nose as dust swirled through the shadows of the cramped space. Nothing but old school uniforms, her underthings, and a shower bag. She turned her attention to the second suitcase. Inside, she could see her old painting supplies, as well as the package that was wrapped in thin foil with a small bow. This was what she’d come to find.
Sitting back on her heels, she tugged at the bow and pulled away the foil. There was a jewelry box inside and she opened it to discover a small silver charm in the shape of a paintbrush. It had obviously been handcrafted, and Rayne felt a sentimental rush of gratitude as she tucked it into the pocket of her jeans. Her childhood would have been a misery without the friends who’d surrounded her at school.
Reaching out to shut the suitcase, she was distracted by the stack of paperbacks. Those didn’t belong to her, did they? No. She leaned forward to study the pile, belatedly recognizing the forbidden books that Nat had gotten from a friend. She’d hidden them under her mattress, to keep them away from the prying eyes of the nuns. Rayne’s hand was shaking as she pushed the paperbacks aside to discover the large wooden box that had also been hidden along with the books.
Obviously in the confusion of the crime scene, some of Nat’s belongings had been mixed up with hers. Grabbing the box, Rayne placed it on the floor. For long moments she simply stared at it with her heart lodged in her throat. A part of her urged her to return the thing to her suitcase. Nat had stored her most private belongings in the box. It was no one’s business what was inside. Or maybe she should wrap it up and send it to her parents. They would no doubt be eager to have anything that belonged to their dead daughter.
Instead, she found herself slowly reaching out to open the lid.
Her breath caught at the sight of the pile of mementos. Valentine cards from her friends. A silver charm bracelet. Small tokens from a local fair. The Saint Christopher medallion one of the nuns had given her. A ribbon that was tied around a lock of hair.
Each keepsake held a memory, and Rayne was nearly overwhelmed by the flickering images of uniformed girls running through the playground. The shadowed pews in the cathedral. The picnics in the nearby woods. And the whispered giggles as she snuggled with Nat beneath the blankets on the frigid winter nights.
Fragments of her childhood that were best left in the past.
About to close the lid, Rayne noticed the photos at the very bottom. Shoving aside the jumble of stuff that Nat had collected, Rayne pulled them out. Nat had taken hundreds of pictures, but these obviously had special meaning to her.
The top photo was a black-and-white picture of the tiny colt curled in the hay with sunlight slanting through a window. The second photo was of Nat, who was standing between two teenagers, a boy and a girl who looked enough alike to suggest they were brother and sister. Trent and Brooke Orwell. They were all wearing fancy clothes that revealed that they’d been on their way to a party. And the third was of the marble fountain that was located near the gardens behind the cathedral.
