Page 24 of His to Haunt

I follow, joining in with a gut full of butterflies as we analyze Zand’s bachelor pad.

“He’s an artist,” she exclaims.

“Apparently.”

The place isn’t as much a home with an art studio as it is an art studio with living quarters. Most of the space is full of easels and shelves with paint supplies. There is an adjoining sitting area with a black leather sofa, a big-screen TV, a sound system, a shelf of plants, and then a curtain divides between a small kitchen and a large bed on the other side. The bed has a cushy grey comforter scrunched up over it.

“Restless sleeper,” I mutter.

“Or maybe he had a hot night,” Kimmie says, shooting me a look like I would know.

I laugh aloud. “I don’t even know if he’s into women.”

“Whatever. He’s into women. Look at his paintings, the guy’s a fucking perv. Great painter. The flowers look so real, the drops of water on them. But why are all the women…so….”

“Dead looking?”

“Uh…yeah. Is that blood?”

“Because they are. Told you he was creepy.”

“Hm. Not my taste, but whatever floats your boat, dude. Hey, let’s check out the back,” she says, disappearing around to the carport where the front of his big black van is sticking out.

I’m about to follow her when something catches my eye, shockwaves spreading through my body.

At the back of the room, hanging on the wall, is a painting of a woman who resembles Rachel.

Stark naked and dead-looking, with a tiny trickle of blood dripping from the corner of her mouth.

Every inch of my body crawls with chills as I study her beautiful, lifeless nude form. The long pale limbs, the roundness of her belly, the cold, dark purple hue of her nipples and lips. She’s lying reclined on a bench in a garden, her eyelids softly shut as if she’s napping, one hand resting in her lap, the other on the bench.

Weirder. The vine-covered lattice framing her reminds me of the embroidery Zand gave to Mom, arching in shades of brown like a winter vine and with two stems sticking out from the top. A doorway behind her.

I finally remember to breathe, exhaling audibly. Feeling entirely weirded out, I catch up with Kimmie.

She has her face glued to the van window, hands framing her eyes as she peers inside. She repeats this until she has looked in every single window.

“Satisfied?” I say, looking over my shoulder. “Did I just hear a car? God, please don’t let that be him.”

“He’s got a lot of gear in here,” she says, ignoring me. “Lighting and stuff. Must be a work van.”

“Hey, Kim I’m worried he’s back. Let’s…get out of here.”

She looks over at me, amused.

“You sound worried. Are you honestly afraid of him?”

“Well, look at his art! I don’t want to become one of his dead subjects.”

Her eyeballs pop dramatically, and she snort laughs.

“Good point. Okay, fine. Let’s go.”

We take the long way toward the front of the hedge maze as far off from Zand’s place as possible, just in case he’s home. Though Kimmie is dying of curiosity to meet him, I would like to get through the weekend without stress. We could just have girl time. But I don’t know if my horn-dog friend can get through a whole weekend in greater San Francisco without meeting at least one city-boy.

After giving Kimmie a tour of the manor and getting a bite to eat in the kitchen, we both go to my room to decide on a pair of LBDs or little black dresses to wear out, do some drinking, dancing, flirting, and generally destress.

But when we get to my room, Kimmie is distracted by what I told her about Rachel’s hidden objects. She shoots me a calculating look.

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