Page 14 of Built of Illusions

That foster home hadn’t been particularly warm, but it had been safe and it had broken Josie’s heart when they’d stopped fostering and she’d had to leave the district.

The art room had been the safest space she’d ever known. Mrs. Chaga’s quiet and determined attitude had been new to Josie as well. The woman had never graded their work by herself. She’d worked with each student to assess and evaluate their pieces.

From her, Josie had learned to see what parts of the art worked, what lacked. No manner of courses could ever replace the things she’d learned from Mrs. Chaga.

Josie’s worldview had changed in those short years. Even her penchant for saving for the next goal could be traced back to Mrs. Chaga’s quiet questions.

What’s working?

How does the work you put in make you feel?

What message are you sending with this piece?

What are you most proud of?

Next time, what would you like to do better?

Does the end result match your goal?

Josie had based her life on those questions. Always working to be proud and to be a little bit better than the last time. Like her move to this home. A little bit better. And her next one would be a little bit better again.

As she molded the clay, Josie looked around the room and realized the setup wasn’t much different from Mrs. Chaga’s classroom back then. Ruthlessly clean and organized. Leaving room for creativity to flow freely.

Once she had pictures of the new space, she’d have to email them to Mrs. Chaga. It had taken years, but Josie had eventually located the woman in a retirement home outside of Bakersfield.

Thoughts of her art teacher helped soothe Josie right along with the clay. But not for long. The faces swirled in her head. Begging for Josie’s help.

Josie squashed down the clay and washed her hands. The need for her sketchpad was too strong to ignore.

Knowing she would be drawing for a while, Josie double checked the locks and the door bolts. The curtains were pulled tight and her home was a bubble of warmth. She was so lucky.

Josie took her pads and pencils to the bedroom and curled up with pillows stacked behind her. She’d love to add a comfy armchair to her front room, but that would wait for another day.

Unable to deny the images any longer, Josie picked up a new sketchpad and started to draw.

The board in the FBI office had shown photos of the victims in death along with photos from their driver's licenses. Not terribly flattering, but it was obvious each of the young women had been beautiful.

Josie started with the photo she’d seen first. Elana Morgan. Her pencil moved quickly as she sketched the woman’s face. The high cheekbones and deep eyes conveyed a sultry vibe even in a photo where she couldn’t smile.

The details weren’t perfect, but the overall image matched how she remembered the woman. Then Josie added a full body sketch showing Elana dancing, matching the sultry vibe.

Josie flipped the page and started to sketch the next woman. After seeing Elena’s image, she hadn’t looked at names again. But the faces were lodged in her memory.

Drawing might not get them out of her brain, but it would help. Those photos had shown only death. Josie would give them a bit of life back.

She would immortalize them in her sketchpad. Maybe something more permanent. Something she could share with their families. Something that might bring them a modicum of peace.

Of course, that thought had her mind skittering to the other photos. Not the ones from their licenses. The death ones.

Josie closed her eyes but that was of no use. The images were in her memory, not in front of her. Opening them again, she blew out a breath and reminded herself her doors were locked. She was safe. No one was after her.

It took a moment to stop the trembles in her hand, but she went back to sketching the six women she’d seen. Some she didn’t have as many details for.

But for each, she drew them in life. Full movement. Singing, dancing, laughing, celebrating, smiling.

She tried to ignore the little bell of recognition ringing in her head and for a long time, she succeeded.

Another page and the women sat and stood together. A team. A united team on and around a park bench. All smiling at her and touching each other in some way.

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