Page 14 of Silent Ritual

She could almost picture him on the other end, running his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair—a sure sign of worry for him.

"There's no shame in it," he said gently. He paused for a moment, then added: "When I was your age, I had to work three jobs just to make ends meet. Before I finally opened the restaurant, I was a dishwasher, a janitor, and an auto mechanic."

"But you're not an artist, Dad," Fiona said. “You don’t know what it’s like to pour your soul into something only to have it go unnoticed, to be dismissed as if it were worth nothing more than the canvas it's drawn on." Fiona's voice hitched, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her.

Her father was silent for a long time. "I may not be an artist," he finally said, his voice rough with emotion, "but I do know what it’s like to fight for something you love, even when the world seems against you."

Fiona swallowed hard. Yet again, she was reminded that her dad was more than just her father. He had dreams and struggles of his own, even if they were different from hers.

"I know, Dad," Fiona said. Her gaze briefly flicked to the rearview mirror again. The charcoal gray sedan was still there, keeping pace with her. An uneasy feeling began to creep over her.

"Listen," her father continued, "I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want you to know that it's okay if you need a breather, and it's okay to ask for help when you need it."

Fiona let out a long sigh. If only she could make him understand how desperately she wanted to stand on her own, how much she needed to prove to herself she could do this alone.

“I appreciate it, Dad,” she finally said, her voice barely a whisper. “But I believe in my work. I just need…time.”

“Alright, sweetie. I’m here whenever you need me. Remember that, okay?”

“I will,” she said as she pulled into the parking lot of her tiny studio apartment. She glanced toward the street, searching for the gray sedan, but it was nowhere to be seen. She felt relieved, though she wasn’t quite sure what she’d been afraid of.

“I just got home," she muttered, a half-hearted attempt to end the conversation. "I should go."

"I love you, Fiona." Her father's voice was firm and resolute, as though his words alone could shield her from the world's harsh realities.

"I love you, too, Dad," Fiona replied, the affectionate words getting tangled up with the knot of emotions in her throat. She hung up and stared blankly at her phone for a moment, willing herself to stand strong.

She got out of the car and retrieved her bag full of paints, brushes, and other art tools from the backseat. She made her way inside, climbed the long, rickety staircase to her third-story apartment—

And was surprised to see the front door standing ajar.

Fiona stopped, her heart rate kicking up a notch.

She tightened her grip on her bag and glanced nervously up and down the otherwise deserted corridor. She thought for sure she’d locked the door when she left this morning, a habit as entrenched as brushing her teeth. Then again, she’d been in such a hurry…

"Silly," she murmured to herself, trying to shake off her unease. She must have forgotten in her rush to get to the gallery. She pushed the door open and stepped inside. As she closed the door behind her, she was surprised to feel a current of warm air drifting through the apartment. The window overlooking the alley was wide open, billowing out her thin, gauzy curtains.

There was no way she’d left that open—she never opened that window.

“Hello?” she called tentatively, trying to think of anyone—family, friends, neighbors—who might have dropped in without her knowing. Surely there was some reasonable explanation for the open door and window. Surely—

Then the figure stepped into view. “Hello, Fiona. It’s good to see you again.”

Fiona stared, puzzled. Then relief washed over her at the familiar face. “You gave me such a scare. What are you doing here? You don’t believe in calling?”

The figure moved closer, smiling, eyes fixed on Fiona’s face. “That would have ruined the surprise.”

“Surprise?” Fiona felt a flicker of unease.

“Yes,” the figure said. “I’m thinking of doing a little painting myself. One painting, actually.”

There was something in the other’s tone that troubled Fiona. She found herself edging back toward the door, resisting the urge to simply abandon all pretense and run. “Oh?” she asked. “What’s your subject?”

“Why, you, of course,” the figure said, drawing a small, ornate dagger. “I’m thinking I’ll use a lot of red.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“How early is too early to show up at someone’s door?” Finn wondered aloud as he and Sheila stood on the porch of an old, moss-covered cabin belonging to Brett Hawthorne. The porch creaked under their weight, and the air was still and heavy with the smell of damp earth.

---