Page 72 of Wicche Hunt

I stood beside him. “Which door?”

He pointed to the last door on the right. “The angle of the door is a hair different from the other doors. That one is ajar.”

I studied the door angles, and he was right. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I swiped through and called Detective Hernández.

“Arwyn, I was planning to stop by and see you today. Actually, Osso and I both were. Are you available?”

“Uh, yeah. We can do this in person. I should be around, sure.” It was like the whole world was conspiring to make sure I couldn’t work and open this gallery on time.

“Great. It probably won’t be for a couple of hours. See you then.”

I disconnected and pocketed it. Bracken was wandering around the studio, stopping to check out one piece of art and then another. When he gestured to the painting facing the wall, I nodded.

He turned it around and then stepped back, one hand out in front of him, warding it off. “Did she die?”

“How in the world did you know that?” I’d never sell the painting of Pearl’s murder, but it honestly just looked like churned-up seawater and the possible silhouette of someone above the water.

“It has a feminine feel.” He pointed to the silhouette. “And this is malevolent. Did he hold her under the water? Drown her?”

“Yes.”

He turned the painting back to the wall.

“Are you sure you’re not a little psychic?” I asked. His perception was uncanny.

He shook his head. “Just observant.”

“The gallery is through here.” I opened the adjoining door and stepped back. Construction was done. The display cases and pedestals were in place. Nothing sat atop them, though, because I was still painting.

He walked to the wall I’d been working on. “I see. The sea monster that’s attacking the gallery is waiting here in the depths of this water.”

“Yes. Exactly. This is the darkest wall, the deepest part of the ocean. The walls will get lighter as the eye travels around the room, closer to the surface. The windows are the light, the air.”

“I believe,” he said, quickly looking from the windows to the cross beams forty feet above us, “that I’ve had enough new experiences today.” He turned his back to the window wall.

“These are the original cannery windows. Are they misaligned?”

He nodded. “Perhaps through time. As this was a cannery, it’s also possible there hadn’t been a strong concern for right angles. I would imagine they just needed the people chopping off fish heads and tails to be able to see what they were doing.”

He patted his pockets, which I was beginning to think was a soothing tic. “I think I should retreat to my home now. I need familiar sameness to rest.”

“Of course. Let me get you some muffins and tea to take with you, though. Okay?”

He nodded, and I went back to the studio. A few minutes later, I sent him off with two muffins and a thermos of tea.

I checked the time on my phone. Half the day gone. I ran upstairs to change into work clothes and then climbed the scaffold to paint.

A few hours later, the main wall complete, I was working on the far wall when I heard knocking on the front door. Odd. Most people knew to come around the back.

I climbed down and answered the door, finding Detectives Hernández and Osso. “Hey. How did you guys know I was in the gallery?”

“We didn’t,” Osso said. “Hernández wanted me to see the glass tentacle you have out here.”

“He took a picture with it,” she said, grinning.

“For my kids. They both love the glass octopuses you gave them,” Detective Osso said.

There was something so surprisingly sweet about a giant of a man, who could shift into a bear, being delighted by a glass tentacle, but I kept that thought to myself. I didn’t want to wreck his grumpy hardass reputation.

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