styled hair. They wore dark suits over starched white shirts, black ties, and grim expressions. And they had watched him as if they knew him.
“They were FBI,” Allyn said.
“What does that mean?” Jaxon asked.
“It means things have escalated.”
Chapter 9
S omething was off. Kendyl stepped back, observing the canvas, the tip of the paintbrush in her mouth. It wasn’t the color—the forest greens, magentas, and golden yellows matched the landscape and sunrise beyond. As much as possible anyway . There were more colors in the sunrise than she could capture with paint. Kendyl squinted, and the landscape became a blurry mess of vague shapes: the hills, circles and ovals; the trees, jagged vertical lines; and the horizon, a curving horizontal line interrupted by the semicircle of the rising sun.
She frowned. The framing was correct, too. Maybe it’s your imagination . But she knew it wasn’t. Though unable to pinpoint the issue, she knew there was one. Something about the painting made her physically uncomfortable. Squeamish. Shaky even. She imagined the feeling to be similar to having a fear of heights and being forced to look over the edge of a skyscraper. It made her ill. The world had a natural artistic balance—the way shapes and sizes complemented each other and fit into the world. Everything had its place. Its purpose.
Kendyl held up a hand, thumb extended to the side, and closed one eye. She used her thumb as a guide to measure the landscape’s features, comparing it to the corresponding features in her painting. The dimensions of the hills on either side of the valley were correct. Even the hill at the far end of the valley, the one that the sun was cresting over, was fine. Then what in the name of—
The valley was too wide. Kendyl cursed herself. In her haste to capture the rising sun, she must have made a mistake while sketching out the valley. It was the kind of thing that ruined the entire painting. If she widened the hills to compensate, the sun would become too small. But if she increased the sun’s diameter, the colorful sky would need to be expanded, too. Like adding too much flour to cake batter—adding more hillside would throw off the entire painting. It would be easier to start over.
Sighing, Kendyl sat down on a nearby log. Just because the painting was a failure didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy nature’s artwork.
“That’s beautiful.”
Kendyl whipped around to see Allyn standing on the trail behind her. “You scared me,” she said, her heart threatening to beat out of her chest.
“Sorry,” Allyn said. “I didn’t mean to.”
“It’s okay.”
Allyn stepped up to the easel, observing the painting. Kendyl wanted to tell him to stop, that she didn’t want him to look at it, but she remained silent, watching uncomfortably from the log.
“Did you do this just now?”
“Yeah.”
“Amazing.” He turned to Kendyl. “How do you do it?”
She shrugged. “The world’s just a series of shapes and lines if you look at it properly. It’s not all that difficult.”
Allyn turned back to the painting. “For you, maybe. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“It’s just like anything, I suppose,” Kendyl said. “Pick a spot and go.”
“Most things have a beginning.”
“Maybe that’s what I like about art then. I can start wherever I want.”
“Always the free spirit,” Allyn said with a laugh. He strode toward Kendyl, and after brushing the snow off the log beside her, he sat down. “Why didn’t you finish it?”
“I messed up,” Kendyl said, grimacing.
“Really? It looks great to me.”
She shrugged. She didn’t want to talk about the painting. “You look tired.”
Allyn laughed, then as if on cue, yawned. His brown eyes were swollen and red, with dark circles beneath them, and his skin was paler than usual, making his dark features more prominent. “I’ve been up all night.”
“I was worried.”
“I’m fine,” Allyn said, throwing his
“They were FBI,” Allyn said.
“What does that mean?” Jaxon asked.
“It means things have escalated.”
Chapter 9
S omething was off. Kendyl stepped back, observing the canvas, the tip of the paintbrush in her mouth. It wasn’t the color—the forest greens, magentas, and golden yellows matched the landscape and sunrise beyond. As much as possible anyway . There were more colors in the sunrise than she could capture with paint. Kendyl squinted, and the landscape became a blurry mess of vague shapes: the hills, circles and ovals; the trees, jagged vertical lines; and the horizon, a curving horizontal line interrupted by the semicircle of the rising sun.
She frowned. The framing was correct, too. Maybe it’s your imagination . But she knew it wasn’t. Though unable to pinpoint the issue, she knew there was one. Something about the painting made her physically uncomfortable. Squeamish. Shaky even. She imagined the feeling to be similar to having a fear of heights and being forced to look over the edge of a skyscraper. It made her ill. The world had a natural artistic balance—the way shapes and sizes complemented each other and fit into the world. Everything had its place. Its purpose.
Kendyl held up a hand, thumb extended to the side, and closed one eye. She used her thumb as a guide to measure the landscape’s features, comparing it to the corresponding features in her painting. The dimensions of the hills on either side of the valley were correct. Even the hill at the far end of the valley, the one that the sun was cresting over, was fine. Then what in the name of—
The valley was too wide. Kendyl cursed herself. In her haste to capture the rising sun, she must have made a mistake while sketching out the valley. It was the kind of thing that ruined the entire painting. If she widened the hills to compensate, the sun would become too small. But if she increased the sun’s diameter, the colorful sky would need to be expanded, too. Like adding too much flour to cake batter—adding more hillside would throw off the entire painting. It would be easier to start over.
Sighing, Kendyl sat down on a nearby log. Just because the painting was a failure didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy nature’s artwork.
“That’s beautiful.”
Kendyl whipped around to see Allyn standing on the trail behind her. “You scared me,” she said, her heart threatening to beat out of her chest.
“Sorry,” Allyn said. “I didn’t mean to.”
“It’s okay.”
Allyn stepped up to the easel, observing the painting. Kendyl wanted to tell him to stop, that she didn’t want him to look at it, but she remained silent, watching uncomfortably from the log.
“Did you do this just now?”
“Yeah.”
“Amazing.” He turned to Kendyl. “How do you do it?”
She shrugged. “The world’s just a series of shapes and lines if you look at it properly. It’s not all that difficult.”
Allyn turned back to the painting. “For you, maybe. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“It’s just like anything, I suppose,” Kendyl said. “Pick a spot and go.”
“Most things have a beginning.”
“Maybe that’s what I like about art then. I can start wherever I want.”
“Always the free spirit,” Allyn said with a laugh. He strode toward Kendyl, and after brushing the snow off the log beside her, he sat down. “Why didn’t you finish it?”
“I messed up,” Kendyl said, grimacing.
“Really? It looks great to me.”
She shrugged. She didn’t want to talk about the painting. “You look tired.”
Allyn laughed, then as if on cue, yawned. His brown eyes were swollen and red, with dark circles beneath them, and his skin was paler than usual, making his dark features more prominent. “I’ve been up all night.”
“I was worried.”
“I’m fine,” Allyn said, throwing his
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