By four o’clock, I’d cleaned twelve of the squares and my work had given definition to part of a fishing vessel in the upper left of the painting as well as to the right arm of the hunky blond guy in the lower portion. Slowly, I came to realize the man was not holding a length of wood as I’d originally thought, but rather an ax, and something was dripping from the blade. Sap? I gently moved my cotton-tipped dowel over the lowest corner of the blade and gasped. The glistening drops were bright red. They could only represent one thing: blood. I stood back from the mural, clutching the dowel in my hand. Only a third of the man’s face had been cleaned and the paint was partly abraded, but I could see that he smiled. That he was handsome. That he seemed completely oblivious to the blood dripping from his ax. I felt a little sick. I thought of the newspaper image of Anna Dale. What had gone on in that strange head of hers?

I was dying to show what I’d uncovered to Oliver, but he was shopping for supplies, so I continued working. An hour later, I realized that I was no longer hearing the background sounds of hammers and saws and the pop of nail guns. I pulled out my earbuds and could tell that the guys were finishing up in the rear of the gallery. I would keep going, though. I had plenty more to do and nothing waiting for me back at Lisa’s.

Wyatt came into the foyer as I wound a fresh piece of cotton on the pointed end of the dowel. His dreadlocks were loose now, hanging long over his shoulders.

“Damn, girl, that’s rad,” he said, checking out the cleaned portion of the mural. “I had no clue that thing was so trashed.”

I felt myself beam. “Totally changes it,” I said.

His grin turned to a frown and he moved nearer to the painting. “Is that blood on his ax?”

I nodded. “I think our artist was a little whacked.”

“Ya think?” he said, then looked at me. “We’re all goin’ over to Waterman’s for a drink. Come with us?”

Oh, hell no, I thought. I could imagine the seductive smell of the place. The beer cold and foamy in tall glasses. Watching everybody drink while I nursed a Coke. Not a good idea.

“I can’t,” I said. A guy at the AA meeting had talked about focusing on his accounting business to keep from drinking. “I’m going to do some more work here.”

“All work and no play…” Wyatt teased.

“I know.” I smiled. “Have a good time.”

Another half hour passed before Oliver walked into the gallery, a soft leather briefcase in his hand. He stopped in the middle of the foyer to look at what I’d accomplished.