Page 39 of Lost in the Moonlight

She faded away as my phone rang in my back pocket.

The fact that Sienna knew so many things about my life that had happened after she’d died was one of the reasons my therapist believed her ghost was simply a manifestation ofmy own thoughts. But she felt real. Wouldn’t a ghost haunting me see the people around me? Wouldn’t she know what was happening? If she was real, why had she returned?If she was only a hallucination, what was I trying to tell myself?

Maybe I just needed to get more than three hours sleep tonight. If I didn’t get more soon, I’d be back on the sleeping pills, and those would only add to my delusions.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and answered it without looking. “Hello.”

“Um. Hi. Is this Lincoln?” a quiet but rough female voice whispered on the other end.

“Yes.”

“Oh. Hi. This is Trinity Carerra. You left me a message.” She sounded as if she was about to be sent to the hospital with pneumonia.

It took me several seconds to register she was the artist whose contact information Lyrica had given me. “Right. Lyrica sent me your name and told me I’d be an idiot not to look at your work.”

Quiet settled over the line for several seconds before she said, “You liked my work?”

If possible, she sounded even more breathless and broken than before.

“I haven’t seen any of it yet. Lyrica threatened much-needed body parts if I didn’t see it in person. Do you think you could bring some pieces out to my new place in Cherry Bay? You can wait until you’re feeling better.”

“I’m not sick,” she said, but her voice denied her words. “I actually live in Cherry Bay. I’ll be working most of tomorrow at my catering job, but I can come by Friday morning. Will eightwork? Otherwise, it would have to be in the afternoon. I have class in the morning at Bonnin. I guess I could just skip—”

“Eight is fine,” I said. What were the odds she was local? Maybe Lyrica had seen it as another reason to send her my way. Or maybe Sienna, fate, or whatever existed on the other side of this life was just messing with me. “I’ll text you the address.”

“I know where it is. Lyrica told me. It’s across and just down the street from The Tea Spot, right? In the old bath works shop?”

I didn’t know how to feel about Lyrica giving away the information about the gallery here. I hadn’t told anyone but those in my closest circle I was opening a second location. We’d kept the purchase of the storefront as quiet as possible, hiding it behind a new corporation I’d formed, just like we’d hidden the purchase of my house behind a generically named trust. I’d spent a lot of money to hide myself away, not only from the media, but also from Felicity.

In the end, I supposed it didn’t really matter as I would have given Trinity the address anyway. “I’ll see you on Friday, then.”

“Lincoln?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. Even if you decide my work isn’t what you’re looking for, I truly appreciate having the opportunity to show it to you.”

And damn, did that take away the annoyance I’d felt at Lyrica’s interference and make me like her. But I wouldn’t sell anything I didn’t think was quality, and I wouldn’t show anything that didn’t fit with the as-of-yet undecided vibe I wanted here.

“I’m going to be honest, Trinity. I haven’t narrowed down a direction for the new gallery yet, so if I say no, it won’t bepersonal, nor will it be because I don’t believe your work is good enough. It simply might not be right for me at this moment.”

“I understand.”

“I’ll see you Friday morning.”

We hung up, and I turned back to the place Sienna had last been. It was right in front of the loose impression of Willow. A ghost-like apparition on the canvas waiting to be filled in, to be given back her soul. Over her right shoulder was a smudge I didn’t remember making. It looked, from this distance, almost like a butterfly…or a fairy. A guardian angel.

Maybe I really was losing it. Maybe this was the final straw that would break the proverbial back of my mental health and leave me mumbling nonsensical words into my teacup.

I looked back at the dark, vile image I’d just created. Demon horns peeked through a fine tapestry being torn by sharp claws, giving a glimpse into a room shrouded in a poisonous cloud. Blood drenched the ripped bed linens and spread over the tips of broken furniture. An elegant, feminine foot stuck out from the bloody sheets. A television in the room was barely visible, and although it wasn’t finished yet, I knew what would be on the screen—a very different version of the demon, the same creature but with a decidedly human face.

What was I doing?

As an artist, I’d always been more of a realist, painting landscapes and people with an almost photographic level of detail. I’d always steered away from uncanny dreamlike images of surrealism and the evocative, spiritual nature of expressionism, and yet, here I was, embracing both. The art still held the photorealistic details I’d always captured, but it was layered with emotions set in fantastical scenes. Statements about humanity poured out through light and dark magic.

Was it something about the events in the past six months that had added another veneer of darkness to the shadows of my mind? Or had the events with Willow really impacted me so severely in such a short span of time? Maybe it was simply Cherry Bay sinking its fairy-tale vibes into my subconscious as Lyrica had insisted. I wouldn’t know until I’d finished the pieces. Until more of the art spiraling through my head ended up on canvas.

So I picked up my brush and went back to work.

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