The man before her looked foreboding, mysterious, and calculating; all traits she despised. No smile punctured his lips. His brows hung low, little lines wrinkling his forehead as his scowl deepened. Sharply contoured jaw. Neat, combed black hair. Rigid posture, his hands tightly by his side, a folder tucked in one hand. And his eyes, almost as black as death. Yep. Nothing about his features made her think she was going to enjoy whatever conversation he had in mind.

She turned her head down, deciding that she wouldn’t even indulge him with a simple, “Go away.” He should get the drift.

“Can I sit down?”

Refusing to glance his way, she shook her head. She wouldn’t even engage him with words.

A chair scraped against the café’s floor, then the table shook, causing the words to blur before her. Who was she kidding? She hadn’t been concentrating on the words long before he showed up.

Steeling her strength for the interaction she assumed would test her patience, she looked up. The man still glared at her, his hands resting over the folder on top of the table.

Her curiosity got the better of her. What was in the folder? Of course, she didn’t want to know badly enough to ask.

“I said no.”

“You did.” His eyes glossed over her, assessing, weighing, judging.

She hated that feeling. Did he know? Was that why he looked at her like that?

“I’d like to read in peace. Please leave me alone.”

“Are you Jezabelle Cotton?”

She managed to hide her surprise. Barely. No one called her that anymore. Actually, no one ever called her that. When she first started to paint, she knew she would never be able to use her real name if she ever decided to share her art with the world. That’s the thing. She couldn’t find the nerve. How did he know her pseudonym?

“Who are you?”

His hand slid under the table, just as quickly popped up. A bright shiny piece of gold shimmered as he laid his badge on the table.

A cop.

“Detective Brands.” A tiny corner of his lip curled up. “Let’s skip the games. I know you’re Jezabelle Cotton, the artist. Your real name is Ginny Appleby.”

She closed her book, wrapping her hands together on top of it. “And how can I help you, Detective?”

He picked up the folder, leaving his badge on the table, and placed a photo before her.

Bright flashes of color. Red shouting from corner to corner, almost seeping from the paper onto the table and right into her hands. Her painting. She named each painting as if they were her babies. A part of her soul. This particular painting, she named, Drenched in Blood. Oh, yeah. She didn’t paint the pretty pictures with flowers or nature or color splashed over the canvas with happiness.

No. She painted brutality, death, the pain hidden inside.

This painting was of a young woman draped over the side of a bed, blood dripping to the floor and graced all over her body. Stab wounds from head to toe, sprinkled around like one would dot holes in a rum cake for the rum glaze to enhance the flavor by making sure it hit every corner.

“This one is quite vivid. The details you managed to capture…” His eyes pierced her with heavy unease. “Do you always paint murders?”

“I never paint…” She tapped the photo, showing not only him, but herself, the picture didn’t affect her. “This isn’t murder. If you can’t look at my paintings and see the real meaning behind them, then you’re an idiot.”

She leaned back in her chair, too tired, too strung out from her harrowing emotions to care that she insulted him.

He opened the folder again, then placed another photo over the first one.

She scrambled away from the table so fast, her chair toppled over. Her legs barely kept her standing, but she dug deep for the strength she knew would shatter any second.

He tapped the photo. “This looks like murder to me. Nothing but a crime. A crime I will solve.”

Staring at the exact replica of her painting she created six months ago, a tear slid out of her eye.

Someone stole her work.

Someone made her painting come alive more than she ever could.

Someone killed a real woman and copied her painting to the T, right down to the blood trailing down the side of the bed, her arm hanging loosely to the floor, her fingers dipping into her own blood.

“Tell me, Ms. Appleby. Did you do this yourself, or do you have a partner?”

Copyright © 2017 Amanda Siegrist.

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