Chapter 30

RILEY

I turned into the driveway and parked beside a big black truck. Because of the Cherry Festival, the drive back to Sunrise Bay had taken three times longer than usual.

From the outside of the cottage, nothing seemed different from when we left that morning. Eric's front door was closed, his truck was still parked beside the house, and the front yard was spotless. Whoever broke into the cottage hadn't disturbed anything on this side of the building.

"That's Matt's vehicle," Eric said, taking off his seatbelt.

"Who's Matt?" Mom asked.

I looked through the windshield. "He's a security specialist from Bryant Security. He installed the alarm system." I studied the rest of the yard. Even if one of our neighbors had walked by, they wouldn't have known anything was wrong. Apart from Matt's truck, everything looked normal.

I stepped out of the truck and took a deep breath. For the entire drive home, I had imagined the worst. Even if nothing was missing, the thought of someone being inside the cottage made me feel sick.

Matt walked around the side of the house. The last time I saw him, he was wearing jeans. Today, his black trousers and gray pinstriped shirt only made me more nervous.

Instead of going straight into the cottage, he walked around the truck and stood beside me. "Are you all right?"

I looked at the cottage, then at Matt's unsmiling face. "I'm worried about what we'll find when we go inside."

Mom climbed out of the truck and rubbed my arm. "The most important thing is that neither of you were in the cottage."

"It's like being in Venice all over again."

Eric's gray eyes softened. "Except this time, you're not alone. Let's hear what Matt has to say before we go inside."

Matt reached out and shook our hands. "I'm sorry I'm not here for a better reason."

"I'm glad we had the security system installed," I said. "I don't want to think about what could have happened if you hadn't helped us." I turned to Mom. "Matt, this is my mom, Kathleen Murphy. She's staying with me tonight."

Matt nodded. "It's nice to meet you. I've been in both sides of the cottage. It doesn't look as though anything was taken, but you can confirm whether that's the case."

I swallowed hard. "Have the police finished what they need to do?"

"They have. The security cameras caught the person who broke in. We should have more information by tomorrow afternoon. The only area of the house they went into was your studio."

My stress levels soared. "How did they get inside?"

"They broke one of the windows in your studio. The alarm was activated as soon as they stepped into the room." Matt handed me a business card. "This is the name of the detective who came here. He wants you to call him as soon as possible."

"Okay." I glanced at Eric. Even though Matt didn't think the burglar went beyond my studio, he must be worried about what he'll find in his side of the cottage. I needed to pull myself together and put the burglary into perspective. No one was hurt, the cottage didn't burn down, and Matt assured us that none of the rooms were trashed. Sometimes, you have to be thankful for small mercies. And this was one of those times.

"We should go inside," Eric said. "Do you want me to come with you into your side of the cottage, Riley?"

I nodded. Even though the burglar was long gone, I felt safer knowing Eric and Mom were close.

"I'm heading into Broomfield to talk to Detective Jameson," Matt said. "If something's missing, make a note of it and give the list to him. I'll call you on Monday with an update of what's happening. And a glazier should be here soon to fix the window in your studio."

"Thanks," I said to Matt with the best smile I could manage. "We appreciate everything you've done."

"You're welcome. Take care."

After Matt drove away, I walked toward the cottage. Eric was on one side of me and Mom was on the other. I looked at the window that was smashed. Black fingerprint dust coated the wooden surround. "It looks as though someone's picked up the shards of glass."

Mom squeezed my hand. "We can have another look later. I'd hate for Sherlock to cut his paws."

Bracing myself, I walked inside the cottage. Pushing open the studio door, I stepped into the light-filled room. My gaze shot straight to where I left one of my paintings. The air whooshed out of my lungs when I saw it was still on the easel, untouched by whoever was inside the cottage. With a sickening sense of dread, I moved farther into the room.

My studio in Venice had enough room for three or four canvases to be on easels at the same time. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for the cottage. Leaning against the back wall was the most ambitious project I had ever started.

My breath caught. It wasn't damaged.

When I turned around, Eric was studying the canvas on the easel. I looked at Mom, silently imploring her to keep him busy while I found something to cover the second painting.

"Come and look at these paintings, Eric." Mom took his arm and turned him toward the left-hand wall. "When we moved to Sunrise Bay, my father framed some of Riley's early paintings and hung them on the wall."

I moved fast. Grabbing a large piece of cheesecloth, I draped it over the canvas. It didn't cover everything, but at least Eric wouldn't see the most important part.

"Are the two people in this painting your parents?" Eric asked Mom.

I turned toward him. He was pointing at a portrait I painted while I was at art school.

Mom sighed. "They are. Of all the canvases Riley has painted, this one's my favorite."

I checked the cheesecloth once more before walking across the room. I stood beside Eric, not sure what to say. When I lived in New York City, I was incredibly homesick. Even though I managed to find a part-time job, I didn't have enough money to go home very often. Instead, I called my mom and grandparents each week, using the Internet to show them what I was doing.

Between assignments, I made them gifts. On one of my few visits home, I took a photo of my grandparents in front of their fireplace. They were smiling at each other, caught for all eternity in a love that had endured through good and hard times. That photo was my inspiration for the painting I made for their fiftieth wedding anniversary.

"It's an incredible portrait."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "They were amazing people." My face warmed under Eric's intense gaze. It felt as though he was looking into my soul, searching for an answer to something that was confusing him.

"Your website only shows the landscapes you've finished. Why don't you paint more portraits?"

His question didn't surprise me. Anyone who knew me at college would have been just as curious. I won two portrait awards while I was studying and sketched enough people to fill a gallery. But after painting my grandparents, I didn't want to start another portrait. Until now.

"Artists are like everyone who's self-employed. If you want to make a living, you have to provide something people will buy. Until recently, I haven't had the luxury of being able to choose what I paint."

"Commercialism over creativity?"

"I needed to eat." I wondered if Eric had ever worried about paying tuition fees, rent, or living expenses. "You think I sold my soul to the masses, don't you?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't need to." I lifted my chin. "Each painting is a huge investment in my time and energy. When I paint a portrait, I'm painting more than I see. I want to capture the essence of the person, understand what makes them unique, what makes them happy and sad. Otherwise, the painting doesn't have a soul."

"You don't have to worry about money now."

"No, I don't." My pulse raced. Unless Eric had seen the painting leaning against the wall, he wouldn't know I had already started another portrait.

"Is anything missing from the studio?"

Mom's voice cut through the fog in my brain. Without thinking, I walked across to the wall of shelves my granddad built. Old jars filled with different-sized brushes ran along the bottom. Paint, sandpaper, cheesecloth, rollers, and containers of sponges filled the other shelves. The things I needed to create my paintings were exactly where I left them.

"Everything looks okay. I'll check my bedroom. Could you look in the living room, Mom?"

"I'm not sure I'll be any help."

"Not much has changed since you were last here. I'll be back soon." I searched my room and the bathroom. As much as I could tell, nothing had been stolen.

Apart from the black fingerprint dust, the living room was just as untouched. I opened the windows to let in some fresh air. "Do you want us to help you check your side of the cottage, Eric?"

"I'll be okay. Do you want me to get everything out of the truck that you bought in Broomfield?"

"I can do that," I said.

Mom patted Eric's arm. "I'll help Riley while you check your side of the cottage. You're a good man."

If I hadn't been watching Eric closely, I might have missed the longing in his expression. There was so much I didn't know about his life. So much I would have enjoyed discovering.

A knock on the back door made me jump.

Eric strode across the room. "I'll see who it is." A few seconds later, his head appeared around the side of the doorframe. "It's okay. It's the glazier."

I let go of the breath I didn't know I was holding. I just hoped nothing else went wrong today—there's only so much chaos my nerves could take.