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  Didn’t she think he knew what leather looked like? Kingston had a sudden flash of himself grabbing her by her ropy neck and digging his fingers into her eyes, thumb in one socket, middle finger in the other. Maybe her screams would drown out the awful humming of the lights overhead.

  “Real leather?” he said, his voice cued to show calm interested. “How does one clean that?”

  “We sell a special cleaner,” she put her hands on her hips with a kind of pathetic pride. “With leather like that you’ve got to be very careful what you put on it. Upholstery cleaner or plain old soap and water won’t do a thing except ruin it. That kind of luxury is a commitment.”

  “Here.”

  Jennifer had emerged from the back and was standing between the two of them. She held out two boxes indifferently, her jaw working like a cow with a mouthful of cud.

  Her mother’s energy changed instantly. Any kind of coquettish charm disappeared and she practically whipped the boxes from her daughter’s hands.

  “Took you a while,” she said. “What are you eating? I told you no eating on the showroom floor.”

  The teenager scoffed. She pulled the carelessly wrapped remains of a chocolate bar from the back pocket of her plus size jeans.

  “It’s just a chocolate bar,” she grunted, unsticking the wrapper from the synthetic caramel that leaked out. “It’s not like I’m getting it all over any of your precious crap.”

  “No, but you know the rules. No snacking.”

  Agatha suddenly seemed to remember that Kingston was practically standing between them. He watched as she made an effort to lighten up. He imagined she’d have an easier time hauling her almost fifty-year-old body up onto monkey bars than she would smiling at her daughter.

  “You’ve got prom in a few months. There’s more than a little baby fat to move, don’t you think honey?” Glancing at Kingston for a sign of approval, she pinched her daughter where her flank stuck out from her t-shirt.

  “Mom! God!” The girl hollered through a mouthful of chocolate. Thoughtless in her horror, she allowed a bubble of chocolate tinted saliva to creep out of the side of her full lips. “That is so rude. Oh, my god!”

  “Well, it’s big day for you sweetheart. Isn’t it? You don’t want to look back on your pictures in a few years and feel regret, do you. Isn’t it important? Don’t you think prom’s a big deal?” For some reason, Agatha Stone felt a need to include Kingston in the conversation. She looked back at him for help, as if his presence as a male made him the last court of appeal in this family drama.

  He was lost for a moment but took the plunge anyway.

  “It’s a big deal,” Kingston parroted. “Every girl wants to look their best.”

  There wasn’t a chance for Jennifer.

  He’d found her stash the last time he’d been in the house. Her heavy body in the same position as her father’s next door, she had lain sweating and snoring on her twin size mattress. There had been a half-empty bag of jalapeño cheddar chips on her chest and another empty one on the floor. The scene had been so familiar to him, he had found himself crouching next to her mattress and reaching beneath it. He knew what he would pull out. He knew, perhaps better than anyone, where someone like her kept her private treasures.

  There was no way the girl was going to fit into the millennial pink bodycon dress her mother had ordered with that much junk food hidden under her bed. His heart thudding so loud in the quiet of the house that he thought it would wake the entire Stone family, Kingston had sat for at least an hour, alternating between staring at the packages of candy and the sleeping girl’s slack face. He had known then that he had to choose both of them. Her mother’s body may have been his main inspiration but her Jennifer’s sickness was a lovely added bonus.

  Jennifer’s face was far from slack now. She had transferred her rage at her mother to him, her cheeks almost as red as the multiple pimples that clustered around her chin like a greasy constellation. Unlike her mother’s perfect skin, Kingston could make out every clogged pore and errant hair on the girl’s face.

  “Yeah well, I’m not every girl,” Jennifer grunted. “I could give two shits about prom.”

  “Language Jenny. Just think of that dress in the closet,” Agatha said, “It’s a winner.” She smiled at Kingston again. “I picked it out myself. That prom queen crown is as good as hers.” Distracting her daughter with compliments, Agatha was able to pluck the candy bar from her hands before she managed to take another bite.

  “Fuck, Mom,” Jennifer growled, spitting out her expletive on a candy sweet gust of her breath.

  Agatha’s mouth dropped open.

  “You get in the back room,” she cried, shocked. Any kind of sweetness was gone from her voice and Kingston was thrilled to hear an abusive depth to it. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that. “That’s two. I can’t have that kind of profanity around the customers.” The woman’s eyes were sharp with indignation.

  Agatha’s anger was beautiful. He wanted to watch her hit her daughter. He wanted to watch her bulbous implants shiver as she struck the girl’s pus erupting face again and again. “You apologize and get in the back.”

  Jennifer had already half loped across the store. When she turned around to him, there were wet streaks down her cheeks.

  “Apologize!”

  “Sorry.” She gagged on the word and as quickly as she faced him turned around again. Her damaged hair streamed out behind her, as dry and bottle blond as layers of hay.

  When Agatha turned back to him, her perfect smile had returned. Was it as practiced as his? Did she spend hours in front of her god awful ugly mirrors at home fitting her masks, just like he did?

  “Teenagers,” she said, “don’t you just want to murder them?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  * * *

  Kray County, New England.

  By the time the sun went down, it would have been sixty-one hours since Piper had disappeared into her studio. That was almost seventy-two painful hours in which Adam had dutifully pretended everything was fine, keeping himself busy with mindless chores and pointless fussing.

  By the second day, he had already put the entire house in order and was at a loss for what to do. He should’ve been taking this time to work on his book, he knew that. Dr. A. Broughton, famed psychiatrist and writer, was already pre-booked on numerous talk shows and podcasts but he had barely even completed the first chapter of the book he was supposed to be promoting. He wished that his agent had never told him about all the anticipation and hoopla surrounding his new work, the pressure was crippling.

  He had a hard time sitting still in front of his computer anyway, even without the fact that Piper had pretty much disappeared. The fact that his office in the upstairs of the house overlooked the barn didn’t help either. He found himself looking more at the closed studio shutters than at his laptop.

  He’d left eight different meals by the door, discreetly knocking before leaving the trays nestled in the gravel like offerings. He’d gone back eight different times to collect the untouched food before the animals got to it.

  If she wasn’t eating, what was she doing?

  It was stupid for him to even wonder. Not only did he know her better than that, but he was simply too well versed in human nature to think otherwise. She was drinking. When she was initially struggling with her recovery, she had done the same thing. He’d find her covered in paint, passed out at the base of the canvases that would eventually make her famous. The booze made them quiet she had told him, when she was drunk enough, the alcohol in her system acted as a barrier between their tortured voices and her poor, bruised brain. He’d had to wrestle the bottles away from her then too.

  Adam walked out to the studio, his bare feet complaining as he stepped onto the path. He could already see that the lunch he had left there earlier was exactly as he’d placed it. The sun had finally gone down and the light above the door shone down onto the congealed soup and tea long ago gone cold.

  Ad
am sighed. He knew before even trying the handle that the door would still be locked. Every time he had brought her food he tried and every time the handle wouldn’t budge. He tried this time anyway, feeling the stubborn steel give a few inches and then halt. This was ridiculous.

  Annoyed and worried, Adam hammered on the door with his fist. He had respected her privacy but enough was enough. He called out her name, lifting his face to the upstairs windows.

  There was no response.

  The image he’d been trying to suppress for the last while unleashed itself. She had been so unhealthy lately, what were the chances that her heart had simply given out? He saw her as she had been all those years ago, as floppy as a whiskey-scented rag doll in a crumpled heap on the floor.

  He pounded again, steadying his nerves. He’d have to remember to get an extra key cut when all this drama settled down. If it settled down. He was unwillingly hit with the second image that he had been trying to suppress since Harrison’s visit, the one that made itself most prominent whenever he had tried to work. Adam’s mounting concern over Piper made it impossible to fight it.

  Her drawing and the picture of the boy had been exactly the same. All the way down to the expression on his face, there had been no doubt that it was the same kid.

  Now, where does that fit into your theory on brain injury, Dr. Broughton? Turn to the camera, please and explain to all of us that it was a coincidence.

  It hadn’t been a coincidence. He knew this is his gut. Piper knew this too. Why else had she retreated?

  Adam hammered on the door again, this time with all his strength.

  Maybe if he admitted to himself earlier that it really might be what she believed it to be, that she really might be some kind of conduit between worlds he would’ve stopped dropping off tea and biscuits and broke in a long time ago.

  He was stepping back to begin kicking when the lock clicked on the other side. Adam froze.

  “Piper?” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Are you alright?”

  He could hear a shuffle as she moved away from the door. He turned the handle, relieved to feel the door give way as he pushed it open.

  The downstairs of the studio was dark. The room smelled heavily of oil paint and turpentine, suffocating behind shuttered windows and locked doors. There was a tall square of light at the top of the stairs leading up to where she worked. Adam’s heart halted in his chest at the sight of Piper’s thin frame, moving like an unsteady shadow towards it.

  He called out to her again, but she didn’t respond. Her head bowed, she steadied herself for a moment on the railing.

  “Piper, Jesus. At least you’re alive.” He moved quickly to the steps, following the fresh air that moved gratefully through the barn.

  She grunted. As he neared her, he could see her fingers were coated in dark paint. It dappled her arms as well, climbing up to her shoulders like creeping mold.

  The smell off of her was almost as overpowering as the turpentine. The spoiled sourness of alcohol and the kind of body odor that only comes from fear sweat surrounded her like an aura. Now on the stair beside her, he reached out and touched her gently.

  Piper started and lifted her head. When she moved her face to him, her features carved out in the shadows of the stairs, she looked exhausted. Her face was dotted with paint and she stared as if she were surprised to see him.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been eating anything.” She worked to form the words, trying her best not to slur. “You’ve been dropping off food and that’s very sweet. I know you want me to eat. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh honey, I should’ve come sooner.” He slid his arm around her waist, drawing her toward him to help support her weight. “You know it’s been almost three days, right?”

  Piper looked confused. Blinking, she touched her face with her coated fingers as if to confirm she was still solid.

  “I guess time flies,” she said finally. “I’ve been working. Wanna see?”

  “What I want, is to get you cleaned up, fed and put to bed,” he said, trying to maneuver her around so he could help her down the steps. “This is not a good scene young lady.”

  “No.” Piper pulled against him, surprisingly strong. “You’ve got to see them. They want you to see. They want to make you understand.”

  Adam’s stomach dropped. Her careful, dreamy speech was no doubt the result of a three-day bender, but it chilled him nonetheless. She slid her hand into his. It was sticky with coatings of half-dried paint and very cold. She began to walk up the stairs, dragging Adam behind her unwillingly.

  “I can see them later, Piper. We need to look after you now. Three days is way too long…”

  She halted at the top of the stairs and turned to him. With the light behind her, her face was completely dark.

  “You know I’m right Adam.”

  His stomach fell again. He felt his hand go suddenly sweaty in hers.

  “What? About what?” What a stupid thing to say. Of course, he knew about what. It was right behind her, glowering under the lights of the studio like the boogeyman finally revealed.

  “You understand it now. You saw the picture Harrison brought and you saw my drawing. I’ve told you the stories, Adam. Finding my mom’s necklace. Knowing where wallets were, missing cats…” Her face still dark, she stared down at him. “This isn’t a bullet. This isn’t a bruise or damage.” She turned away, letting go of his hand. “This has nothing to do with the whatever part of my brain you say is mangled, Adam. This is about them.”

  She stepped into the light of the studio and to the side. Adam followed her hesitantly, his feet heavy.

  He stepped into the upstairs loft, his breath catching in his throat audibly. Four canvasses were against the broad back wall. They had a presence, but more than just Piper’s incredible skill, there was a life to each of their faces that made Adam want to shrink in front of them.

  There was pain. Excruciating pain.

  The completed painting of the boy stood in front of him. The paint still shimmered, various different complex shades that seemed to alter and swirl around each other. As oversized as the others, he looked down at Adam with eyes thick with pleading. Adam was compelled to look away, his chest feeling like it was slowly crushing under the weight of the missing boy’s misery.

  Helpless against their size, he looked at the other paintings. He’d seen them before, even showed them to Annalisa with a blasé pride. But now, uncovered and leaning against the back wall like a police line-up, they were suddenly sinister enough to make his skin crawl. They had changed.

  “Now you get it, right? Please tell me you get it.” He had forgotten Piper was even behind him. Her voice cracked with emotion and Adam had to force himself to look away from the work. She had sunk to floor. Tears were tracking through the smears of paint on her cheek. “I’m not crazy, Adam. I know you think I am, even though you say you don’t. Everyone does. I’m not.”

  He was at her side in a second, crouching down as she rocked gently back and forth.

  “No, you’re not crazy Piper. You’ve never been crazy. It’s the combination of those seizures and…”

  She interrupted him.

  “I don’t want to hear that,” she spat, her voice wavering in a way that made her seem so much drunker and vulnerable than he’d ever seen her. “I’m sick of hearing that. You saw the picture Harrison brought up. How could I have known that? How could I know exactly what all of those missing people look like? That has nothing to do with a stupid bullet.”

  Adam could practically feel the eyes in the paintings watching them, willing him to look back at them, to admit. The hairs on his arms and neck stood up as a shiver ran through him. He had stared at that photograph of the boy for hours after Piper locked herself into her studio. He had struggled to understand the connection between the two. How could she have woken from a dead sleep to have drawn such a photograph perfect portrait of a boy she’d never seen before? At some time, he’d allowed his disbelief to start to wa
ne. There was more evidence in favor now. He’d be a fool not to take it into consideration.

  “Alright,” he said, quietly.

  “Alright?” Piper looked up at him. Her eyes were bright with both tears and hope that her best friend might finally be on her side. He had never felt so guilty. “Alright, you finally believe me? Alright, the dreams are visions? That they’re messages?”

  “Alright, I’ll stop telling you they’re not. How’s that for a starting point?”

  Piper collapsed into him. Crouched in front of her work, Adam wrapped his arm around her, feeling her wet face pressed against his t-shirt. Her shoulders shook as she cried, her hand clutching at him like a life preserver.