Claire didn’t have the answers, something that didn’t sit well with her. She always had the answers. She focused on her painting again, creek complete, and moved on to the delicate strokes that would make the marsh grass itself.
Claire glanced at the clock once or twice as she worked. Ten thirty. Then just past midnight. Her mind still wasn’t tired. It was still racing with curiosities and possibilities.
She shivered, unable to shake the feeling of unease that had persisted since the attack. She set the brush down. Almost unconsciously she rubbed her left shoulder, the first place the man had grabbed. When she realized what she was doing, she jerked her hand away, like acknowledging the bruise somehow made what had happened more real. Instead of dwelling on it, she examined her painting—almost finished—to judge her progress so far.
It looked like the scene she’d seen and photographed, but the early morning sun had been warm in that picture, comforting and full of the promise of what the day would bring.
She’d stayed true to the water and the grass in that picture. The scene itself was exactly the same. But a change in the mood had come across through shadows, a bit of a feeling of discord in the particular shade of yellow-gold she’d chosen for the light. It wasn’t the first time she’d done that, projected emotions she was feeling onto a painting, but it was certainly telling of how troubled she truly was by her attack. She kept painting anyway—it was beautiful even if it wasn’t the picture she’d intended to paint. And it was helping her calm down—the subtle shaking of her hands that hadn’t stopped since everything had happened was finally starting to ease.
Forty minutes after midnight, she set the brush down, painting complete. The idea of starting another crossed her mind, since usually she painted until everything in her mind was resolved, but she knew better than to expect to clear her mind fully after everything that had happened tonight. For now she did feel better, at least a little, and she needed to go to sleep, since she had to be downstairs at five o’clock to start the cinnamon rolls. Claire knew that bakeries in bigger cities opened so early that proprietors had to start baking at four or even three in the morning. But Treasure Point didn’t get going until about seven most days. And even that was early for all but some fisherman and a few professionals whose jobs started early.
Claire put her paints away in order, the way she liked them, then stood and stretched. She looked around the nearly dark room and wished she’d turned a few more lights on. She had one small light on in the kitchen, her lamp on her painting table, and then the string of Christmas lights outside. The rest was darkness.
She usually turned off everything but the Christmas lights when she went to bed. Tonight she was leaving all of it on. She walked around the apartment, checking corners and closets even as she laughed at herself for her paranoia. If someone had been out to get her and hiding in her apartment, he’d have made his move to attack her when she was immersed in her painting.
Once she’d confirmed that she was the only one in the apartment and all the doors and windows were locked, Claire went to bed. God, keep me safe, she prayed as she started to drift.
Her eyes snapped open. Claire glanced at the clock. Just after two. It felt like she’d just fallen asleep, but apparently she’d gotten a couple of hours’ worth.
She swallowed hard and looked around. Her room was dark, but the main living area still gave off a bit of light, enough for her to glance around and confirm that everything was undisturbed. She didn’t know what had awakened her, but clearly there was nothing to worry about.
Claire settled back on her pillow, took a deep breath.
And with no warning, no flicker like a regular power outage often gave, the apartment went dark. And the stillness suddenly felt...not as empty as it had seconds before.
Like she wasn’t alone.
The shadows in the darkness changed ever so slightly. Claire blinked. And then, in the slivers of moonlight that came through the cracks in the curtains in her bedroom window, she saw a shape.
Someone was in her bedroom.
* * *
Always go with your first instinct. It was one of the rules Nate tried to live by. But Nate had broken that rule when he’d pushed away the urge to visit Kite Tails and Coffee and check on Claire when he’d left Jenni’s apartment. He’d wanted to make sure she was settled in safely for the night, but he’d felt drained after the long evening and had decided that checking in on her could wait until morning. He glanced at the red numbers of the hotel alarm clock. It was 2:00 a.m.
Closer to morning than nighttime.
Nate closed his eyes, forced his head a little deeper down into the pillow as though that would somehow help him forget the reason he wasn’t sleeping and make rest come more easily. Not two minutes passed before he got up, threw on yesterday’s jeans and then zipped his black leather jacket over the undershirt he’d been sleeping—well, trying to sleep—in. He’d walk downtown and confirm that things were quiet in the area around Claire’s shop, and then maybe his mind would let him catch at least a couple of hours of good sleep before he went back into town in the morning to observe.
A week, he thought to himself as he quickened his pace on his course toward the middle of town. He’d been sitting in Kite Tails and Coffee every day for a week, watching people in the town come and go, and so far, he’d seen nothing that would help him with his case. On the bright side, Nate had a pretty good idea of folks’ routines now. He’d always left the coffee shop when the morning rush died down around ten in the morning and walked around the town and the surrounding areas, taking pictures since being a photographer was part of his cover. He’d always wanted to delve deeper into the hobby, get better at it, and he should have been thankful for the time to do so.
Mostly, though, he’d be thankful for a break in this case. He had to be getting close to something or Jenni wouldn’t have been targeted. And somehow it was connected to Claire, since she appeared to be a target, as well. But how? He didn’t have all the pieces yet.
He was in Treasure Point to figure out where the supply of Wicked, the Carson brothers’ drug of choice, was coming from. He didn’t believe they were manufacturing it, but the brothers were good at making it look like they had no associates. That was why they’d become so important in the drug trade—people appreciated their discretion. But sooner or later, they’d slip up—and then, if it all went according to plan, they’d lead him to even bigger players in the trade.
The lights from downtown grew closer. Nate shook his head a little at the Christmas displays in the store windows. Not his favorite holiday. He felt that, as a Christian, maybe it should have been more special to him. And he was thankful for His salvation, thankful that Jesus coming as a baby made that possible.
But Christmas had been his sister’s favorite holiday. And right now every single Christmas that passed without her just...hurt.
That was a subject he could wait for another time to think through. For now, better to push that one out of his mind and not think about it.
Instead he focused on what he was doing now. Coming down here to check on Claire had seemed like such a good idea when he’d been lying in his hotel room, unable to sleep. But now that he was here...what? Did he call her in the middle of the night, announce that he was the guy who’d rescued her and just hope she didn’t flip out? How could he even explain how he had her number?
But standing here in the street near her building wasn’t doing her any good, not really.
Nate spun
