Deathscape by Dana Marton Read Free Book Online Page B

with true genius.
    Someday his pieces would be exhibited in the finest museums. Someday he would be called the premier artist of the twenty-first century. Someday the rest of humanity would grow up to his vision.
    All he had to do was keep creating and remove things that were a threat to his legacy, Jack Sullivan being at the top of his list.
    But Sullivan would be wary now.
    Which meant the next trap had to be even better thought-out with a better bait, something the detective couldn’t resist.
    * * *
    Ashley added another small dab of white to the Prussian blue. No strange visions, no headaches—a good day. She mixed the paint carefully.
    She had finished four works in the two weeks since she’d promised Isabelle the new series. Her loft was a good place to hide from all the police and FBI agents who’d been coming and going on her property.
    She’d escaped into painting from sheer desperation, then kept up with the schedule even after they left.
    She needed at least three dozen works for a decent show, and four dozen would be better. If she had a show, if it was well received, got good reviews, was written up in the papers—maybe that would convince her father that she was back to normal. Maybe then he would let Madison come back to her.
    She missed her daughter. They hadn’t come last weekend after all. Her father had some emergency board meeting, trouble at the company. She hated not seeing Madison, but in a way, the missed visit came at the right time. She’d still had the police on her land.
    This way, the latest mess she was in had at least remained her secret. It didn’t become another weapon that could be used against her. And now that the police were gone, everything should be fine this weekend when Madison came. Things were back to seminormal again.
    She let the brush glide across the canvas, let her arm relax into a sweeping curve reminiscent of the curve of a shoulder, then another one, smaller, the two twined together the moment before being torn apart. Each color she mixed turned out more profound than the one before as she painted her emotions onto the canvas, poured her heartbreak out with every stroke of the squirrel-hair brush.
    “ Painting is an attempt to come to terms with life.” She murmured George Tooker’s words to the shapes taking form.
    For three hours, in the perfect morning light, she had soared. She existed in the elusive zone of creativity where no anxiety existed, just bliss. She felt the pain she painted, felt every ounce of despair, but differently from the darkness that assailed her at other times.
    At times, painting could be terror, but on days like this… pure healing therapy.
    Not long ago, she’d been able to come and go from this place at will. Lately, she was lucky to find her way in, once in a great while, hacking ahead with sweat and desperation as an explorer in the deep jungle, trying to find a lost city.
    The sun trekked across the sky, going around the loft windows, changing the light. She stepped back to inspect what she had so far. A few more days and the painting would be finished. She contemplated whether she could squeeze in another half an hour, even twenty minutes, glancing toward the window again. A movement in the hemlocks caught her eye.
    Her muscles clenched as she felt her special place slip away. The wind, she told herself. But none of the other trees were moving. Maybe it had been a deer. It wouldn’t be the first time deer strayed this close to the house. But her growing anxiety refused to ease. Her muscles tightened further as she cleaned her brushes and put them away, cleaned up the loft, glancing toward the window every couple of seconds.
    She was probably getting cabin fever. She rolled her neck and headed downstairs. She hadn’t left the house in the two weeks since finding Jack Sullivan. She hadn’t liked all those investigators crawling all over her land.
    They hadn’t searched the house and the garage, at least. They probably wouldn’t