Chapter 53

RILEY

I added a touch of yellow paint to my canvas. I'd painted other portraits, but this one was by far my best. I smiled as I stepped back and admired the scene.

A few days after Eric and I arrived, I took a photo of him and Sherlock by the lake. That photo had become the basis for this painting.

What I'd learned about Eric over the last few weeks allowed me to add layers of emotion to the canvas, celebrating the man and his dog who'd spent most of their lives protecting people.

I hoped I'd captured Eric's creativity, his grief at losing the man he loved, and the joy that Sherlock brought to his life. Eric's family, his friends, and his work as a writer all added another dimension to the man I loved.

The painting wasn't as technically complicated as the landscape I'd finished, but it was still challenging.

Painting a portrait was like looking into someone's soul. As an artist, I balanced what I saw with what I found. Sometimes what I was looking for was hidden beneath a lifetime of experiences that needed to be unraveled. And sometimes, it was right there, waiting to be discovered.

I picked up an old rag and wiped my brush. It was time for a break. I needed to stretch, grab a drink, and see if I had any of Jonathan's cookies left.

As I walked into the living room, I glanced at the clock. If the meeting with Detective Jameson had lasted as long as Eric thought it would, he should be getting ready to leave Broomfield.

I checked my cell phone, then headed toward the kitchen. After our walk, Eric still wasn't happy about leaving me alone. I understood why he felt that way, but he needed to realize I could look after myself.

A knock on the back door made me jump. My gaze shot to the deadbolt. No one could get inside unless I opened the door.

"It's Special Agent Gareth McDonald from the FBI. I have a few questions for Riley Murphy. They're about Leith Chapman."

I frowned. "No one told me the FBI was involved in the case."

"Until two days ago, we had a minor role to play. But there's been a significant development in the case."

I raced to the living room and grabbed my cell phone. On the way back to the kitchen, I tapped out a message to Eric.

"Riley? Are you still there?"

I hoped Eric saw the message and replied. "You need to show me some identification."

"I'll hold my badge against the window."

I looked at my cell phone again. Still no reply. I sent a quick message to Alex, then peered at the badge pressed against the glass. It seemed real, but for all I knew, it could be a fake.

"I understand your reluctance to unlock the door. Would it help if I gave you the phone number of the special agent in charge of our field office? He can verify my identity."

"That would be great, thank you."

Special Agent McDonald rattled off a number. The man I spoke to confirmed that the special agent at my door worked for the FBI. After I ended the call, I checked my messages. Still nothing from Eric or Alex.

"Are you able to come back later when Eric Lanigan's here?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't. If you're worried about Mr. Lanigan not knowing what's happening, Detective Jameson's showing him the new evidence."

That made sense. Eric wouldn't deliberately ignore my text, especially when I was on my own. "Just a minute."

I made sure the special agent had moved away from the window before slipping a small knife into my pocket. I didn't care if he was with the FBI or the King of Siam. I needed to protect myself and, without a gun, a knife was the next best thing.

I opened the door and held out my hand. "I'm Riley Murphy."

The FBI agent's eyebrows drew together. "You're younger than I thought you'd be."

I had no idea what difference that made. "What do you mean?"

"When I read you were a world-renowned artist, I thought you'd be older."

"I had some lucky breaks." I moved toward the kitchen counter, keeping as much distance between us as I could. Special Agent McDonald was about ten years older than me. Time hadn't been kind to his five-foot-eight, overweight body.

I pointed to one of the chairs pushed against the kitchen table. "Have a seat. I don't have a lot of time, so if you could ask your questions, that would be great."

"I appreciate you talking to me." Special Agent McDonald opened a notebook. "Mr. Lanigan told us you arrived in Sunrise Bay on July 20th. Is that correct?"

I nodded, my heart thumping harder.

"And did you know Mr. Lanigan before you arrived?"

"No. I'd never seen him or read any of his books. What has that got to do with Leith Chapman?"

"Mr. Chapman has been implicated in the deaths of two people. The bodies were found in New Haven and Stamford."

I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, feeling the blood drain from my face. "He killed two people?"

"We're currently investigating their deaths and speaking to the victims' next of kin."

"How do you know it was Chapman who killed them?"

Special Agent McDonald's mouth tilted into a smile.

My heart pounded faster. There was nothing funny about this.

A buzzing noise came from my phone. I glanced at the kitchen table, where my phone sat, too far to reach easily.

"That'll be Eric. I'll ask him how long he'll be."

"That won't be necessary."

The sinister tone in the agent's voice sent goosebumps along my skin. I had to leave the cottage. "Eric might have some questions for you." I edged closer to the back door.

"I'm sure he will when he realizes you're missing."

I lunged for the door.

The man threw back his chair and slammed me against the wooden door.

Pain exploded in my head and shoulders.

"You thought you'd get away that easily?" he ground out between his teeth.

I tried to twist out of his hold, but he shoved his body against mine, pinning me to the door. "You won't get away with this."

The man laughed against the side of my face. "Is that so? My stepbrother didn't have the guts to follow through on the plans we made. I don't have the same problem."

Fear and desperation made my heart pound. I couldn't die—wouldn't die like this.

Remember what Eric taught you.

Keep talking. Buy yourself some time. Think.

"Leith Chapman is your brother?"

With a grip that almost broke my wrists, the man yanked my hands behind my back. "Stepbrother. At least my mother had the sense to leave his no-good father. Stop fighting. This will be a lot easier if you do what I say."

Taking a deep breath, I relaxed my shoulders, readying myself for what came next. "Just like the people you murdered?"

"They were cowards, trolls who should have known better. No one bad-mouths my family and gets away with it."

I wasn't waiting to be his next victim. I twisted sideways, threw my heel backward, and connected with the side of the man's knee.

His howl of pain raged through the cottage.

The grip on my wrists loosened. I grabbed the knife, ramming it into the man's thigh. I ignored his scream, the feel of the blade plunging into his flesh.

Run.

I flew out of the cottage and sprinted toward the dirt trail at the back of the house.

My neighbors wouldn't be home. Eric wouldn't be here for at least fifteen minutes.

Run.

Pine needles dug into my bare feet, leaves slapped against my face. I ran faster, dodging fallen trees and branches hanging in midair.

Run.

There was nowhere to go, nothing to keep me safe. Gulping back air, I tried to think, tried to plan what to do next. But nothing made sense—until I saw a log of wood shaped like a bird.

Veering left, I followed the trees around the edge of the lake, found the trail I discovered a few weeks ago.

Lowering my head, I kept moving, kept plowing through the undergrowth.

I knew where I was going.