The Stroke of Winter(37)

The paintings were intact. She let out the breath she was holding in one great sigh. She could feel the relief radiating off her shoulders.

“Are these . . . ?” Wyatt’s words evaporated as he stared at the paintings.

“I found them in the studio,” she admitted. “After we opened it up. We’re assuming—my parents and I—that they were painted by Sebastian Bell.”

All at once, she had the feeling again of eyes boring into the back of her skull.

“Wyatt,” Tess said, slowly. “These paintings were in the wall safe when we left for lunch.”

They locked eyes for one long and terrible moment that seemed to last forever. The room, the paintings, even the dog’s growling dimmed and faded into watercolor. Only their eyes, locked together, were crystal clear.

“Who else has the combination?” he said.

She shook her head. “Only my dad,” she said, her voice wavering. “In Florida. And it’s one of those Wi-Fi-enabled locks that he can change from his smartphone. So, it never remains the same for too long.”

Wyatt slid his phone from his back pocket. “We should call the police. Whoever did this might still be in the house.”

Tess shook her head. “No,” she said, the words coming out harsher than she meant them. The intensity of it surprised her. She cleared her throat and tried again. “No, Wyatt. Let’s you and I and Storm check the house to see if there has been a break-in. He’ll know if someone is hiding. I don’t want anyone else in here. Not even the police.”

Wyatt’s expression melted from concern into confusion.

“These are undiscovered works by my grandfather,” Tess said. “The world doesn’t know they exist. I told only my son and my parents that I found them. I got strict orders from my dad to keep all of this under wraps. Nobody else was supposed to know about them.”

“Why?” Wyatt asked.

Tess stared at him, open mouthed, for a moment. “Do you have any idea what they’re worth?”

Clarity on his face, then. “Of course. Millions. Now I get it.”

“When I told my dad about finding the paintings, he instructed me to put them in the safe right away. He absolutely does not want any hint of this to get out. It could be—”

“Dangerous,” Wyatt continued her thought, nodding. “For you. I absolutely agree. Nobody can know about these until you—well, I don’t know what one does at a time like this. Get them into the right hands, I suppose. But, Tess . . .” he continued, staring at the paintings, “something doesn’t make sense, here.”

Nothing much had made sense since they had opened the studio, she thought.

“What?”

“If somebody broke in and ripped open this wall safe to get at the paintings . . .”

All at once, she realized. “Why didn’t they take them?”

“Exactly.” He thought a moment before he went on. “The only people here yesterday were Grant and Hunter. I would bet my life neither of them would do anything like this. They’ve been inside every house in Wharton, and let me tell you, some very wealthy people call this town home for the summer or year round. Grant and Hunter are as trustworthy as they come.”

That might be true, Tess thought. But not being tempted to steal some family heirloom candlesticks or expensive jewelry was one thing. An undiscovered Sebastian Bell was something else entirely. The heady thought of what it would fetch at auction was enough to turn anyone’s head. People had killed for much less.

She took one step toward the row of paintings, Storm watching her every move. As she looked closer, she saw they were in the same terrible order they had been in the studio when she found them.

First, the images of Wharton’s streets at night, then the ones that were views into the windows of homes, then the woman on the street, then the same woman posing in the studio with the angry red streak on the wall behind her, and finally that ominous, haunting image of the cliff. A darkness, an anger running through all of them.

“My God,” Wyatt whispered, taking a step closer, too, seemingly lost in the world the paintings depicted. “They’re so . . .”

“Disturbing?” Tess finished his thought. “I know. Sebastian’s work always had sort of ominous undertones, but deliciously so. These . . .”

“These are something else,” Wyatt said. “I see exactly what you mean.”

Storm moved in front of Tess, positioning himself between her and the paintings.

“The way they’re laid out like that,” Wyatt said. “It looks like a storyboard. You know, like they use in advertising or even in movies to lay out how the scenes are supposed to go.”

The idea caught in Tess’s throat. That was exactly what it looked like. But a storyboard of what?

They stepped closer and took it all in. Wharton’s streets on lonely, rainy nights, fog rising in the air. Views inside houses where families were going about their lives, some happily, some decidedly not. Whatever the scene, these were not an inside snapshot of family life. They were a voyeuristic intrusion. And then, a woman, on the streets alone, viewed from behind. Followed. Stalked. The same woman in the very studio where Tess had discovered the paintings. And then the cliff, deep and dark and dripping with evil.

All at once, the realization hit Tess like a freight train. She didn’t want to believe it. And more than that, she wanted very much for Wyatt to be gone. He had to leave before he realized it, too.