The Stroke of Winter(23)

She flipped the light switch and gasped aloud as the overhead light illuminated the room. Everything was stained with a grayish rust-colored hue. The floor, the countertops, the sink, the tub. The towels and rags. What in the world?

Tess turned to Wyatt, who looked similarly confused.

“Paint, obviously, right?”

She shrugged. “I guess.”

Only then did Tess notice the items that were leaned against the wall, behind the tub. Canvases. Several of them, stacked together, turned toward the wall. She couldn’t see if they were empty canvases, or . . . could they be . . . ? She took a quick breath in. Were those canvases undiscovered paintings by Sebastian Bell? There had to be four or five of them, or more. They would be worth a fortune.

She shot a look at Wyatt—he was glancing down at the pots on the countertop and the towels and rags on the floor. She didn’t think he had noticed the canvases. All at once, she very much wanted to be out of the room.

“Well, I guess Hunter was right,” she said brightly, flipping off the light and ushering Wyatt out of the room. “No animals in here, either.”

She gave the room a last look and pulled the bathroom door shut behind them. Her entire body was sizzling with the thought of what she might have just found. She was already imagining what she’d do next. When Wyatt left for the night, she would head back into the room to discover what, if anything, was on those canvases. If it was as she suspected—unknown works by Sebastian Bell—she’d call her father right away.

Wyatt had walked ahead of her, across the room and to the door, which they had swung half-closed behind them when they came in. The look on his face was quizzical . . . bordering on fear.

He glanced up toward her. “Tess,” he said.

She stood, frozen to the spot where she stood in the middle of the floor. She shook her head, trying to stop the revelation that, somehow, she knew was coming.

He swung the door closed so she could see what he was seeing.

Scratch marks. Three long scratch marks.





CHAPTER TEN



Tess and Wyatt just stood there, staring at the door, mouths agape. Tess couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. And yet there it was.

“What is this?” Tess whispered, finally. She crept toward the door to get a closer look and ran her hands along the scratches that were clearly there, digging her own fingernails into the marks.

So, she hadn’t imagined it.

“Are these new?” she asked, looking up at Wyatt. “I mean, fresh? Is this the scratching I heard?”

He shook his head. “I’m not sure.” He pointed to the wood next to the scratch marks and winced. “And I’m not sure what this is, either.”

A stain. A dark stain, different than the grain of the wood. Wyatt touched it and looked at his fingers. Nothing.

Was it paint? It looked the same as the stain in the bathroom.

Tess took a breath in, and all at once, the room seemed to fade into the distance. It became deathly silent, and Tess could see herself, there, in hazy detail, with Wyatt, observing the scratch marks on the door. It was as though she were above herself and Wyatt, looking down, floating on the ceiling of the room. A dark shadow was beside her.

Just as suddenly as it happened, she was back in her body with a thud. Tess blinked at Wyatt a few times and then very much wanted to be out of that room.

“Come on,” she said, pushing him out the door and closing it, hard, behind him.

“Tess,” he said, but she was already hurrying into the room next door.

“Help me with this,” she said, pushing an antique armoire, but not getting anywhere with it.

Wyatt came through the doorway and stopped. “What are you doing?”

“I need to push this in front of the door to the studio,” she said, grunting as she moved the massive piece of furniture less than an inch.

“Wait a minute, now,” Wyatt said, holding up his hand and slowly walking toward her. “It’s okay. Let’s take a breath.”

Tess looked at him, and it seemed like he was trying to calm a wild animal. Her? Was she the wild animal? What was she doing? She took a couple of deep breaths.

“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I just thought . . .” Her words evaporated into the fog that seemed to have settled in around her. Or in her mind.

“Tess, there is nothing in that room,” Wyatt said, finally. “It really didn’t look like those scratches were fresh.”

“But I heard . . .” She didn’t know what else to say. She’d heard what?

She tried again. “I just got a really bad feeling in there,” she said, the words coming out slowly, carefully. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep if that door is open.”

Wyatt’s expression was one of confusion. Furrowed brow. Narrowed eyes.

She understood the disconnect he seemed to be feeling. First, she couldn’t wait to get the door open to see what the room contained. Now she said she wouldn’t be able to sleep if it wasn’t closed. And blocked.

Just then, Tess wished she had never done it.

Pandora’s box.

Wyatt glanced around the room. “This armoire isn’t going anywhere, not unless I get Grant and Hunter back over here to help us,” he said. “But you and I can probably move the old steamer trunk in front of the door. If you’re sure you want it there.”