Page 99 of My Killer Blind Date

Friday morning, I stand in front of the third painting. Blood.

It’s hard to speak. The piece is that impactful. Rolling, textural waves of blue-gray-green, like looking at the ocean from above in the late evening light, and in the lower right section, what looks like a woman’s body, floating, small amidst the vastness of the turbulent water around her, trailing a trace of red, which I imagine is blood. There’s a sense of freedom – but not in a happy way. Maybe it’s the dark side of freedom. Loneliness. Death. A far cry from Life and its visceral, if dark, energy.

Just like the other two pieces, the paint is lumpy in parts, with grainy ridges at the edges of the waves, giving the painting a sense of motion. I feel like I could dip my finger into it and it’d come away wet – figuratively. Though, literally, that’s true as well.

It has the same impact as the others, but it’s so different too. In Life and Skin, the subjects were front and center. This one, though, is mostly ocean, with the subject of the portrait tiny, reduced, face-down.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ says Simon in a reverent hush.

‘So someone else finished her painting?’ It’s the only way to explain its appearance.

Simon winces politely. ‘I wouldn’t jump to conclusions. Oil paintings with this kind of thick application can take days, weeks, even months to dry.’

‘So she could have finished it over six months ago?’ I can hear the tightness in my own voice, the confusion. ‘Before she disappeared?’

‘It’s possible, however …’ Simon gestures to the pale, gritty ridges of the waves, delicately painted on, like a fragile lace edging. ‘I’d guess these finishing touches were done more recently.’

‘How recently? A day or two? A week?’

Simon’s forehead puckers. ‘I’m afraid I can’t say. Drying speeds depend on many things. The thickness of all the layers combined, and in this case, there are many. The temperature and humidity of wherever it was kept. The pigment itself—’ He shakes his head. ‘I’d say a week? Maybe two? No more than three.’

A horrible vision creeps into my mind, of Zoe alive for much longer than I originally imagined. Kept under lock and key, forced to paint, for some twisted reason. And then, as soon as she finished this painting …

I feel sick at the thought.

I check my phone. Nothing from Liam. Now I’m getting nervous. After this appointment, I’m heading to his place and kicking down the door if I have to.

Pocketing my phone again, I focus on Simon.

I can’t ignore the fact that these paintings showing up after Zoe’s disappearance is very lucrative for the gallery. An unknown artist could only get so much. But a murdered artist in a high-profile serial killer case …

What happened, Zoe? You started this one. Who finished it? You? Or your captor?

I lean closer, as if I could discern such a thing. The figure of the woman is more detailed than I realized, now that I’m looking closely. You can see part of her back is above the water, and her legs and arms are underneath. A dead man’s float. The ribbon of crimson around the woman’s body blends in with the chaotic fan of her dark hair.

All of a sudden, all I want to do is touch the painting. I know that’s a huge no-no in the art world, but it’s not like alarms are going to blare …

I dart a look at Simon, who’s very focused on his phone at the moment. Then, very softly, very gently, I touch the crest of one of the waves with my index finger, a kiss of skin on canvas. I pull back quickly and rub the bit of grainy white paint that came off between my fingers. A bit of paint that Zoe may have stroked on right before the death blow came. Her finishing touches. Her last mark on the world.

I wrap my arms around myself and stand upright again. Is the floating woman Zoe? Was this Zoe’s way of painting her own goodbye letter?

‘I hope to have the legal side of things cleared up by next week,’ says Simon. ‘If you’re in a position to bid on the series, I’d be happy to keep you in the loop.’

‘Yes, please do,’ I say, even though of course that’s not going to be possible.

*

Outside the gallery, I call an Uber, because I’m going to Liam’s.

Yesterday I allowed myself to be pissed at him for not responding, but who am I kidding. I’ve been worried all along. We’re dealing with a killer here, and Liam’s ghosting could be a sign that something terrible has happened.

Why oh why didn’t I immediately press him yesterday on the lead he was following?

As I wait for my ride, I dial him. The call goes straight to voicemail. There’s a tingle down my spine that’s worming its way into my bones.

The sensation increases until it’s practically screaming at me.

Something is wrong.