Promise Not To Tell(6)

A page came up on the screen. Cabot uncoiled and rounded the desk so that he could read over Anson’s shoulder.

“There’s no Hannah Brewster,” he said. “There is a Hannah Parker, though. She just disappeared after the fire. No family ever came forward to ask about her.”

“That’s her,” Virginia said quickly. “She changed her name. She was always terrified that Zane might come looking for her. That’s why she lived off the grid on Lost Island. No phone. No computers. No credit cards. No bank account. To my knowledge, the only piece of tech that she possessed was a digital camera that I gave her about a year ago.”

Anson whistled softly. “All because she was afraid Zane might find her?”

“Yes,” Virginia said.

“Sounds like Hannah Parker Brewster would have fit right in with our little crowd of conspiracy theorists,” Anson said.

Virginia nodded grimly. “Definitely.”

Cabot fixed her with his intent gaze. “If she didn’t trust technology, why did she accept the camera?”

“She didn’t consider it a risky device. It was just a camera, after all. She used it to take photos of island scenes. She painted the scenes on notecards that were then sold to tourists at one of the island gift shops. That was how she survived, you see – selling boxes of notecards to visitors. She never signed those pictures, and the people who operate the gift shop kept her secret.”

Cabot got a thoughtful look. “If Brewster went to ground on that island, how did you find her?”

“I didn’t,” Virginia admitted. “It never even occurred to me to look for her. When I was growing up, my grandmother made sure that I had no connection with anyone who had been associated with Zane’s operation. Not that anyone ever came around asking about me, as far as I know. But about a year and a half ago Hannah showed up at my gallery.”

Anson peered at her over the rims of his glasses. “Why?”

“She wanted to give me some of her serious paintings – not the notecard scenes. I knew her pictures would be tough to sell – they are quite large, for one thing. But when she told me who she was, and after I saw the paintings, I couldn’t turn her away. I assumed she needed money, so I took the pictures and gave her an advance. She accepted the payment but she insisted on cash. I don’t think she really cared much about the money, though. She just needed to get rid of her pictures.”

Anson’s bushy brows formed a solid line above his forceful nose. “Why would she do that if it wasn’t for the money?”

“Her paintings were scenes from her worst nightmare,” Virginia said.

Understanding heated Cabot’s eyes. “Scenes from her time in the cult.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Specifically scenes from the night Zane torched the compound,” she said.

Cabot’s jaw tightened. “I see.”

“Before she died she gave me a total of ten pictures of that night,” Virginia continued. “Each one is a little different, each is from a slightly different perspective. But if you saw them, you would recognize the setting immediately. She called the series Visions.”

“Did you ever sell any of her pictures?” Anson asked.

“No. After the first couple of pictures were delivered, Hannah decided that she didn’t want them sold to what she called ‘outsiders.’ She insisted they were only for those who understood their true meaning.”

“Survivors of the cult,” Cabot said.

“Exactly,” Virginia said. “In the end, I just collected them one by one. I keep them in a storage locker in my shop.”

“You don’t hang any of them in your own home?” Anson asked.

“No,” Virginia said.

“Of course not,” Cabot said. “They’re your nightmares, too. Who wants a nightmare hanging on the living room wall?”

Virginia gave him a long, level look. “You are very perceptive, Mr. Sutter.”

The corner of his mouth may or may not have twitched a little. “What can I say? You caught me on a good day.”

“I assume you only bill for services rendered on your good days,” she said politely. “I wouldn’t want to pay for time spent working on your off days.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Cabot said. “And the name is Cabot.”

Anson cleared his throat and looked at Virginia.

“Did Hannah Brewster always deliver the paintings to you personally or did she ship them to you?” he asked.

“She brought the first couple to me but I realized she truly hated having to leave the island,” Virginia said. “The outside world terrified her, so I offered to make the trip to Lost Island to pick up the pictures whenever they were ready. She was very relieved.”

Cabot raised his brows at that. “If Brewster didn’t use a phone or a computer, how did she let you know when a painting was ready for you?”

“Hannah had a very close friend on the island, Abigail Watkins, who ran the Lost Island B and B. Abigail did have a phone – a landline. She needed it for business purposes. She called me to let me know whenever Hannah had finished a painting. But aside from that landline, Abigail didn’t use any tech, either.”

“You say this Abigail Watkins was a good friend of Brewster’s?” Cabot asked.