white.
At first glance, it appeared to be another still life, this one also of flowers. This time, the pink and rose flowers were in a field or a rambling garden.
But Rachel saw clearly, among the vague circles and swirls of pale pink and rose, the white table, the ghostly figure lying motionless on the table, the white death mask covering the young woman’s face.
No one else would see it, of course. They hadn’t seen the drowning figure. They hadn’t seen the figure tumbling down the flight of stairs. If those images had been cleverly hidden within the strokes of oil, this hidden image of the figure lying on the table among the pale watercolors was even more vague. Rachel thought that she wouldn’t even have seen it herself if she hadn’t already had the dream.
How could she have had the nightmare before she’d seen this painting?
“That calendar page is from the desk in the art building lobby,” Joseph said. “See that little design at the top, the crisscrossed pen and paintbrush? But I don’t get it,” he added, furrowing thick, dark brows. “The words are scary, but the painting isn’t.”
“Look at it closely,” Rachel said, knowing it was futile, but passing the small painting around, anyway. “Don’t you see anything in that painting but flowers?” It was maddening, being so certain of what she was seeing and, at the same time, being incapable of making them see it, too.
They passed it from hand to hand, each of them studying the watercolor carefully, looking for some hint of what the message on the purse had threatened.
No one but her saw anything.
It doesn’t matter, Rachel thought dispiritedly as she retrieved the painting from a bewildered Aidan. The hidden images weren’t meant for any of them, anyway. They were meant for only one person. Me. And I see them.
The artist had accomplished what every artist wanted more than anything. He had achieved his goal in painting the watercolor. He had sent a message, and the message had been received.
The message was: Rachel Seaver, you are going to die.
Chapter 12
“T HAT LOOKS LIKE SOMETHING you’d do, Sam,” Joseph said to Samantha; pointing at the water-color in Rachel’s trembling hands. “It’s got your touch. All those dull, weak pastels. And it is a watercolor, your specialty.”
“Who are you kidding, Joseph?” Samantha said, leaning over Rachel to study the small painting. “You’ve never paid enough attention to my work to have any idea where my real talent lies.”
“What talent?” Joseph murmured.
Rachel hurt for Samantha, although Sam herself seemed unperturbed by Joseph’s comment. She never even glanced at him. “Everyone’s a critic,” she said dryly, and then tapped a finger on the watercolor and said to Rachel, “It’s just a painting, Rachel. It can’t hurt you. But I don’t blame you for being upset about the calendar. That’s pretty creepy.”
“And Joseph’s right,” Paloma said, “that page is from the calendar in the lobby of the art building.”
“Which means,” Aidan pointed out, “that any one of hundreds of people who viewed the exhibit could have helped himself to that page. No one would have noticed someone pocketing a calendar page.”
Rachel wasn’t listening. She was staring at the painting. Flowers … so many flowers … like at a funeral.
YOU WILL NEVER SEE ANOTHER MONDAY.
Who had stolen her purse? Kicked those boxes out from under her? Locked that closet door?
Rachel felt as if her brain was rapidly disintegrating. What was left of it remembered that she had put something in her purse before she’d climbed up on those boxes. What was it? What had she confiscated?
Oh. A smock. Aidan’s smock. Because of … because of the paint stains, the colors.
She slid her hand into the purse again, fumbling around, even though she was certain now that she wouldn’t find what she was seeking.
Because it wasn’t there.
Aidan’s smock was gone.
She glanced up at him, her heart
At first glance, it appeared to be another still life, this one also of flowers. This time, the pink and rose flowers were in a field or a rambling garden.
But Rachel saw clearly, among the vague circles and swirls of pale pink and rose, the white table, the ghostly figure lying motionless on the table, the white death mask covering the young woman’s face.
No one else would see it, of course. They hadn’t seen the drowning figure. They hadn’t seen the figure tumbling down the flight of stairs. If those images had been cleverly hidden within the strokes of oil, this hidden image of the figure lying on the table among the pale watercolors was even more vague. Rachel thought that she wouldn’t even have seen it herself if she hadn’t already had the dream.
How could she have had the nightmare before she’d seen this painting?
“That calendar page is from the desk in the art building lobby,” Joseph said. “See that little design at the top, the crisscrossed pen and paintbrush? But I don’t get it,” he added, furrowing thick, dark brows. “The words are scary, but the painting isn’t.”
“Look at it closely,” Rachel said, knowing it was futile, but passing the small painting around, anyway. “Don’t you see anything in that painting but flowers?” It was maddening, being so certain of what she was seeing and, at the same time, being incapable of making them see it, too.
They passed it from hand to hand, each of them studying the watercolor carefully, looking for some hint of what the message on the purse had threatened.
No one but her saw anything.
It doesn’t matter, Rachel thought dispiritedly as she retrieved the painting from a bewildered Aidan. The hidden images weren’t meant for any of them, anyway. They were meant for only one person. Me. And I see them.
The artist had accomplished what every artist wanted more than anything. He had achieved his goal in painting the watercolor. He had sent a message, and the message had been received.
The message was: Rachel Seaver, you are going to die.
Chapter 12
“T HAT LOOKS LIKE SOMETHING you’d do, Sam,” Joseph said to Samantha; pointing at the water-color in Rachel’s trembling hands. “It’s got your touch. All those dull, weak pastels. And it is a watercolor, your specialty.”
“Who are you kidding, Joseph?” Samantha said, leaning over Rachel to study the small painting. “You’ve never paid enough attention to my work to have any idea where my real talent lies.”
“What talent?” Joseph murmured.
Rachel hurt for Samantha, although Sam herself seemed unperturbed by Joseph’s comment. She never even glanced at him. “Everyone’s a critic,” she said dryly, and then tapped a finger on the watercolor and said to Rachel, “It’s just a painting, Rachel. It can’t hurt you. But I don’t blame you for being upset about the calendar. That’s pretty creepy.”
“And Joseph’s right,” Paloma said, “that page is from the calendar in the lobby of the art building.”
“Which means,” Aidan pointed out, “that any one of hundreds of people who viewed the exhibit could have helped himself to that page. No one would have noticed someone pocketing a calendar page.”
Rachel wasn’t listening. She was staring at the painting. Flowers … so many flowers … like at a funeral.
YOU WILL NEVER SEE ANOTHER MONDAY.
Who had stolen her purse? Kicked those boxes out from under her? Locked that closet door?
Rachel felt as if her brain was rapidly disintegrating. What was left of it remembered that she had put something in her purse before she’d climbed up on those boxes. What was it? What had she confiscated?
Oh. A smock. Aidan’s smock. Because of … because of the paint stains, the colors.
She slid her hand into the purse again, fumbling around, even though she was certain now that she wouldn’t find what she was seeking.
Because it wasn’t there.
Aidan’s smock was gone.
She glanced up at him, her heart
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