“Fliss, if this is confirmed to be the missing fifth painting, then you’ve uncovered one of the most important pieces of lost art in the last century.” I look at the gaping maw in the hallway. It threatens to swallow me whole. “Anyway, forget serial killers and curses…the question I have to answer now is, how was Tim Williams in possession of it?”
“I think the real question,” Kim says, “is why didn’t he tell anyone?”
THREE
Dad has been flitting aroundthe painting all day, and I get the impression Kim has been left with the honeymoon admin, so I made myself scarce a few hours ago. I started to put my clothes away but got bored so tried to look for documentaries about The Four but there are none. Instead, I binged a few episodes of my favorite true-crime show on YouTube while I snacked on leftover slices of wedding cake and reorganized my notebook.
It’s almost full now, packed with comments and scribbles from when I come across an interesting case. It’s also stuffed with printouts and newspaper clippings, to the point where the whole thing is held together with a thick rubber band so I don’t lose anything. It probably needs an upgrade, but it’ll last a bit longer. I mainly use it to study theories on cold cases, a hobby that nobody seems to think is particularly healthy.
I’ve been texting Izzy to tell her all about the painting drama, and when she replies to remind me what time her train gets in tomorrow, I realize I’m on the verge of nodding off. I have to admit, the pink bedding and throw pillows areverycozy. I glanceat my iPad while the end credits of what must be my fifth episode play out, and I debate watching another, but I don’t know if I’ll stay awake for another forty-five minutes on this duvet of clouds. I turn it off and sit up, and that’s when a strange, herbal scent drifts down the hallway. It’s overwhelming, even through my closed door, so I jump out of bed and peek out into the hall. Kim is standing in front of the painting.
“Do you have to do that?” I force an exaggerated cough and wave my hand in front of my face as I approach her, even though I kind of like the smell.
She stops waving the bundle of herbs around and places it on a small golden plate beneath the painting. “Sorry, but I thought it was for the best. Your dad has gone for a run, so it was now or never! He hates it when I sage the apartment.” The sage begins to smolder out, the smoke briefly distorting the portrait even further in the late-afternoon sun. I suppress a shudder. “This thing creeps me out even more now that I know a bit of the history.”
“So you thought you’d season it?” I aim for sarcasm, but it falls flat. The painting creeps me out too.
“Sage is very powerful,” Kim says, almost wisely. “It’s been used in cleansing rituals for generations.”
“And in stews,” I mumble.
“Very funny. It’s why I chose the color for your room, you know. A fresh start here in Blackwood.” She looks at me and I can tell she thinks she might have overstepped. “I didn’t mean—”
I cut her off, deciding not to acknowledge it. “I just don’t believe in all that witchy stuff like you do.”
“Oh really?” She looks relieved and leans into it. “What about the tarot card I left you on your bed this morning?” She walks into the living room, pulls a small, well-thumbed book from a shelf in the book nook and opens it to a dog-eared page.
“The Two of Wands,” I read aloud, looking at the illustration of a man in a funny hat holding a big stick. I didn’t notice the card, which means it’s probably on the floor somewhere by now. “Honestly, Kim, you might as well have slid the two of diamonds under my door. It means nothing to me.”
“The Two of Wands is all about discovery.” Kim smiles, returning the book to its place. “I think that sums up your morning.”
“I suppose,” I say, settling myself on the sofa and grabbing the remote. She’s got me thinking, though. I did discover the self-portrait, didn’t I? So maybe I can find out where it’s been all these years. “Don’t those cards have loads of different meanings? You can read into them any way you like.”
“That’s the beauty of tarot. I like to pull a card every morning so I can prepare myself for the day. It’s a self-care thing. I thought I’d do the same for you, before we leave you on your own.”
“I won’t be on my own, Izzy will be here,” I say, turning up the volume on an old sitcom. “And like I said, I don’t believe in that stuff.”
Kim hovers in the doorway for a second and I can sense she wants to sit down and have a Talk with me, so I pretend to watch TV. “I’m going to go and finish packing,” she says instead. “Shout if you need anything.”
“Will do.” I breathe a sigh of relief and channel surf for half an hour until I hear the key in the front door. Dad’s back from his run.
“Kim, please tell me you haven’t been sageing the painting?” he shouts, but I can hear the laughter in his voice.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she calls back, and I smile. Seems like it’s a regular occurrence, then.
“You okay, Fliss?” he asks as he passes the front room.
“Yep. Good run?”
“Not my best, but it’s been an eventful few days, hasn’t it? I’m shattered, ready to relax.”
“Me too. I’m just jealous you get to do it in the Maldives.”
“Well, don’t be. You’ll have a great time here.” He pulls his damp T-shirt away from his chest. “Oof, I need a shower.”
He wanders off and I begin to hear the faint sounds of the shower, then Dad chatting to Kim as they bustle around in their room, presumably unpacking their wedding outfits and replacing them with vacation clothes.
“Hey, Fliss, you hungry?” he asks, sticking his head round the corner. “I thought the three of us could go out for a late lunch/early dinner before the appraiser comes round to view the painting this evening. Kim’s booked a table at the new Italian restaurant in town at four.”