"I came home around four. The street was filled with police vehicles. A neighbor told me that Laura had been shot on the sidewalk, but they didn't know where the shots had come from. A bunch of people had called 911 while a few tried to render first aid. Help came pretty quickly from what I understand."

"Okay. What do you know about my mother besides what happened today?"

"She's a musician and teaches music. She loves art, and she's a big supporter of artists like me."

My brow shot up at that piece of information. "What do you mean?"

"She approached me a few years ago to buy one of my pieces. That's how we met." He tipped his head toward the painting on the wall next to us. "That's it."

My gaze moved to the stormy scene, a blend of blues, greens, and grays, a tiny boat bobbing on the water between giant waves. A distant speck of light called the boat home, but there was a sense that the boat wouldn't make it. "That's beautiful. It's also disturbing and dark." I swung my gaze back to him. "Sorry. I don't mean to be rude."

"That's exactly the way I want you to feel when you look at it—unsettled, unsure."

"Really? Does the boat make it to shore?"

"What do you think?"

"I have no idea. Sometimes bad things just happen. People don't always come home. Life can be a battle for survival."

"Exactly."

I looked back at the painting once more. It had many layers. I had a feeling I would see something new every time I looked at it. "You're really talented."

"That's one of my early pieces," he said, as I met his gaze once more. "I've now become interested in mixing paint and canvas with other materials. My work is constantly evolving. But getting back to your mother…"

"You said you met her when she bought your painting. Where was that?"

"It was at a show in Seattle. That was about two years ago. She contacted me after the show to say she loved it and wanted to buy it. She told me that the storm was a metaphor for her life. After selling it to her, we became friends. She was interested in seeing other pieces and supporting my work when she could. She talked me up to a local gallery a few months ago. They offered me a show, and she suggested I use the apartment downstairs while I was getting ready for it."

"That seems generous." I felt oddly resentful. "So, you're not just a renter?"

"No. And I thought it was generous, too. Do you remember your mother being interested in art?"