Now You See Her Read online



  “In a way it does. You knew what blunt-force trauma to the head looked like, knew to ask questions. Knowing Mr. Stokes was murdered gives me a different view of what I’m doing now. I think the murderer is standing looking down at her.”

  He followed her thoughts with ease. “Because of the way the man’s shoe is positioned?”

  “If he were there to help her, or investigate, wouldn’t he be crouched down? A bystander wouldn’t stand so close. I’m going to try working on the painting while I’m awake, see what happens. I don’t think she’s dead yet; I think I’m picking up on something in the future and that’s why I’m doing just a little at a time. If I can finish it, see who she is, then maybe I can stop it from happening.”

  He said, very gently, “I don’t think you’ll be able to finish the painting until it’s too late.”

  His concern furled around her like tender arms. “But I have to try,” she whispered, her throat suddenly tight. She swallowed. She refused to cry in front of him again. When she cried, she wanted it to be about something real important, like being cold.

  “I know. Got a pen?”

  She reached for the pen and pad beside the phone. “Got it.”

  “Here’s my cell phone number.” He rattled it off. “I’ll have the phone with me tonight. Call me if anything happens and you go into shock again.”

  “How many numbers do you have?” she muttered. “That’s three.”

  “Well, there’s the fax number, too, if you want it.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be sending you any faxes.”

  He chuckled, then said, “Take care of yourself. The last few days have been rough on you. Don’t let this get the upper hand.”

  “I’ll be careful,” she promised, and went back to the studio warmed by the ease with which they communicated, the sense of being linked. No matter how upsetting this situation got, she wasn’t alone.

  She stared at the painting for a long time.

  Assuming she was looking at a murder scene changed her perspective. Picking up a stick of charcoal, she lightly sketched in the logical position of the woman’s body, given the position of her legs. And if the man’s right foot was here, then his left foot would be here. No, that was wrong. The angle was too severe. She needed a more direct angle, not exactly head-on but close to it.

  She knew instinctively when she got it right. Her fingers moved rapidly over the canvas, sketching a rough outline of two people around the details she had already painted.

  When she finished, she was trembling, as exhausted as if she had worked for days instead of—of however long she had worked. Glancing out the window, she saw night had fallen. She had no idea what time it was, but her stomach growled a warning that it was a long time past supper. She was a little chilly, but nothing unusual. Her efforts hadn’t triggered that scary, bone-deep cold, at least not immediately. She had no idea how she would feel in a few hours.

  She rubbed her eyes, then remembered her hands were black with charcoal. Muttering under her breath, she went into the bathroom and peered in the mirror. The black smudges all over her face weren’t a surprise. She washed her face and hands, then went into the kitchen.

  Soup was always good. It was fast and hot. She opened a can of chicken noodle soup and nuked it. What did Richard eat at business dinners? she wondered. More to the point, would he ever expect her to eat with him at those business dinners? The prospect wasn’t a pleasant one. She would manage, she decided. If necessary, she would even buy some high heels.

  Good God, this was serious. She should be running as far and fast as she could. Instead she sipped her chicken noodle soup and smiled a little at the lengths to which she was willing to go for Richard, should he ask.

  She showered and went to bed, and woke a little after dawn feeling warm and relaxed. She was almost disappointed; lying in Richard’s arms wasn’t exactly a hardship, no matter how cold she was.

  She lay there for a while, enjoying the warmth. An electric blanket wasn’t as good as Richard, but she would have to make do. She daydreamed for a while, smiling, before noticing that the sunlight wasn’t getting any brighter.

  She sat up and looked out the window. Fog pressed against the panes, white and a little luminous, as if it were just thin enough to allow a little sunshine through. The light was strangely reflective, filling all the shadows in the room the way sunshine on snow did.

  Afterward, she didn’t remember getting out of bed. She got dressed, in her usual thick socks, sweatshirt, and jeans. The coffee hadn’t started brewing yet—she had got up too early—so she turned off the timer and turned on the maker herself. Then she went into the studio, because this white light was too unusual to miss.

  She knew exactly what was missing from the high-heeled pumps.

  Twenty minutes later she stepped back, blinking. The heels weren’t solid. A small gold ball formed the middle of each heel. The shoes were very distinctive, impossibly stylish. If she had ever seen a pair like them before, she would have remembered.

  And the skirt. . . the skirt was fuller than she had sketched it last night. Flirty. Black The woman was wearing a black dress.

  In some corner of her mind, she laughed. This was New York City; what else would the woman be wearing but black?

  Hours later, the ringing of the phone jerked her out of her trance. She shuddered and stepped back, for a moment unsure of where she was or what that noise meant. Then she realized it was the phone and raced to answer it.

  “Are you all right?” Richard demanded, and she realized she should have called him.

  “I was,” she said, still more in a daze than out of it. “Nothing happened last night. But this morning—I was painting. I just knew how it should look. What time is it?”

  “Nine-thirty.”

  She had been working for almost four hours. She remembered very little of it.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  She was wrapped in a blanket when Richard arrived, a freshly nuked cup of coffee in her hand. She was cold, but the cold wasn’t unbearable, at least not yet. He bent down for a quick kiss, then started to take her in his arms to battle the chill.

  “Wait,” she said. “I want you to see the painting first.”

  He went with her into the studio and in silence studied the canvas. The scene was graphic in its violence. The woman’s body was sprawled in a pool of blood, which had soaked into a pale carpet. Her chic black dress had been slashed to pieces, and one arm, the only one Sweeney had completed, was covered with wounds.

  The man standing over her was relaxed, the knife he had used in his right hand, which was hanging at his side. Working from his shoes up, she had completed him to just above the waist. He wore black pants, perhaps jeans, though jeans were a bit incongruous with the wing tips. She had also painted the beginnings of a black shirt.

  “A burglar, maybe,” Richard said with the cool distance in his voice that said he had switched into his analytical mode. “They’re both in black, but she looks as if she’s been to a party. The shoes are wrong, though; a burglar would wear track shoes, or something else with a soft sole.”

  “I thought there was something strange about the shoes, too. They look awkward.” She didn’t like the way she had done the feet; they were vaguely out of proportion. But when she had begun studying how she could correct them, the mental image refused to form. Perhaps she was just exhausted and she would be able to think better after she had rested.

  “I need to get this finished,” she said, and even though she heard the fretful tone, she couldn’t do anything about it. She was just about an inch short of whining. “I have to know who she is.”

  “Honey—” He clasped her shoulders and turned her toward him. “You have to assume you won’t know until after the fact. That’s the way it was with Elijah Stokes—”

  “But this thing, whatever it is, is getting stronger all the time. Or maybe I’m just getting better at it. What I’m painting now is in the future, so why shouldn’t