I couldn’t look away. Even though I wanted nothing more than to purge the image from my mind. Forget I’d ever even come into town today. But the tableau held me captive. Even as Sheriff Raines closed the wall of curtains, I stared at the blank white swath of material. I couldn’t move a millimeter.

Something tickled the back of my brain—phantom pieces of realizations floating around in my mind until they came together with a violent snap. I couldn’t help my sharp intake of air. Because the scene I’d just glimpsed was familiar. I’d seen it once before. On Brody’s computer screen. His website. That gruesome murder scene had already been painted—by Brody’s hand.

22

Brody

I balanced my sketchpad on my knee as I leaned back on the dock bench. It wasn’t a hardship to wait out Shay’s return here. Winter’s bitter cold was lessening just a bit, and I was glad to be able to enjoy my island a bit more without freezing my balls off.

I scanned the beach and Harbor’s small point that jutted into the water. Another painting was taking shape in my mind. But this one would require some planning. And a canvas the right size to accommodate the epic piece I envisioned. I could see it coming to life. A woman out on that point. Gown billowing in the breeze. Strong and fearless as she prepared for what was to come. Her hair swirled around her, long strands taking flight as if they would fight to defend, too.

The woman’s face was clear as day. What seemed like the only face I’d painted for the last month. The same woman who had bolted from my studio when I kissed her. The one who’d been avoiding me for days. But that all stopped this morning.

The sound of a boat’s motor had me looking towards the water. I grinned when I saw it heading straight for my dock, Shay behind the wheel. She’d likely try to give me the brush-off, but we were going to talk if I had to chase her all over this island.

I took my time setting aside my sketchpad and getting up as Shay tied off the boat. I strolled down the dock, just in time for her to swing a leg over the side. But as she did so, my grin slipped. Her limbs seemed to tremble as she moved. I picked up my pace, taking her arm. “What’s wrong?”

“I—I…” Her mouth opened and closed as if she were trying to get the words out but failing with each attempt.

“Is it Michael?” Hell, what if he’d shown up on Anchor, and she’d been alone? Maybe she’d gotten another letter.