Part 2

I couldn't sleep that night.

I know, it sounds silly, being so worked up over a painting. But you have to admit it was weird. He was obsessed with this thing, for whatever reason. *Why didn't I see the painting when we were dating? Did he hide it away in the basement?* That was the one place I'd never been. Had he built a little shrine down there, painting, candles, the whole nine yards?

The thought of it made me sick.

*Is it an ex-girlfriend? An ex-wife, even, that he never told me about?* Getting a painting commissioned must have cost a fortune. Especially a huge, detailed one like this. I mean, as much as I hated that thing, it was clearly done by someone incredibly gifted. The glint in those piercing gray eyes, the small dimple on her right cheek...

But clearly he wasn't keeping it to appreciate the artistry.

*He knew her.*

*And whoever she is, he's obsessed with her.*

And then I got the craziest idea.

I sat up in bed. Slowly, quietly. Turned to Eric. He was fast asleep. Then I slipped out from underneath the covers, grabbed my phone from the nightstand---and tiptoed out of the room.

My bare feet padded softly across the hallway as I made my way towards his office. Then I pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped inside.

The office was cold---much colder than our bedroom. Goosebumps pricked up my bare arms. But I didn't waste any time. I reached over, fumbling across the wall, and hit the switch.

The light flicked on.

The blonde woman stared down at me from the wall. Her eyes seemed to follow me as I took Eric's leather chair and dragged it across the hardwood. Once against the wall, I stepped up onto it.

We were staring at each other, face to face.

I'd never been this close to the painting before. My face inches from hers. This close, I could truly appreciate the detail. Each individual eyelash painstakingly drawn, curving up from its follicle. Threadlike striations of light and dark gray filling her irises. Her skin, so pale and creamy, dotted with the tiniest of pores.

But I wasn't here to appreciate the artwork.

I lifted my phone---and took a photo.

Then I brought up a reverse image search.

It took a few minutes for me to find the right website and upload the photo. But when the results loaded... I gasped.

I expected maybe one result, if I were lucky. Some sort of facial recognition that would match the painted face to a photo. Or, maybe the artist's website would come up, and mention who the subject was. But instead---*dozens* of thumbnails filled the page. Of the exact same painting I'd been staring at for weeks.

Fingers trembling, I clicked on the first one. It led to a news article.

**Search Continues for Missing Franklin Art Student**

My heart dropped. Little black dots danced in my vision. I collapsed into the chair behind me, trembling, and began to read.

*Anya Kelsing, 23, went missing after a hike with her boyfriend...*

*The two became separated when they came upon a bear...*

*Her backpack was found roughly a mile from where the sighting occurred, but no trace of Anya was found...*

And the caption under the painting.

*Kelsing is a third-year student at Franklin College, majoring in Fine Arts. She recently completed a self-portrait that was exhibited at Le Coeur (above)*

I clicked on the next article, and the next---but they all said the same thing. Hike, bear, disappearance. All of them showed a photo along with her self-portrait; she looked strikingly identical to her painted likeness. None of them mentioned the boyfriend's name, but it had to be Eric. The most recent article, from five years ago, was a video clip of her parents begging for her search to continue. Sadly, judging by the news articles, it never did.

I don't know how long I sat there. All I know is that I was suddenly jolted from my thoughts by a loud *thump* in the hallway.

Footsteps. Coming towards the office.

I shot up. *He can't find me here.* I glanced around the room, looking for someplace---any place---that I could hide. But it was probably too late. Surely he'd seen the light on, from under the door...

I ducked under the desk just as he stepped into the room.

"Tara?"

I clapped my hand over my mouth, trying to silence my ragged breathing. *He's going to see the chair out of place. He knows I'm here. He knows...*

"Tara, you in here?"

*Why did I hide? I could've just said I came in here because I heard a noise. Needed a pen. Couldn't sleep. Why the fuck did I hide? Now he's going to know that I know...*

"Tara?"

*But maybe it's fine. Maybe the bear got Anya, maybe Eric had nothing to do with it. Isn't that more likely than Eric being a murderer?*

"There you are."

I looked up---and screamed.

Eric was crouched there, in front of the desk, staring at me.

"I---I was looking for a pen," I stuttered, lamely. "I wanted to write down---I remembered I have to pick up groceries tomorrow and I needed to add something..."

He tilted his head, a small smile on his lips. "I don't think that's the truth, Tara."

*Make a break for it.*

I started to lunge out from under the desk. His hand quickly shot out and grabbed my wrist. *Hard.* "You figured out who she is, didn't you? That's the only reason you'd be hiding from me."

I trembled in his grasp. "What did you do to her?" I whispered.

He let out a dry laugh. "So you think I'm a murderer. How nice, that's the first conclusion you jump to."

"No---no, I don't think you're a murderer." I swallowed. *Stupid, stupid, stupid. If he killed her, and he knows you know... then you're dead too.* "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Just... what happened? They didn't find a body. Did the bear get her?"

He didn't reply. Just stared at me, silently, with those cold dark eyes.

"I was jealous," I continued, desperately, "but now I understand. I wish you'd just told me. To lose someone like that... of course you'd want to keep the painting. It's all you have left of her."

"You should have just left it alone," he said, his tone oddly emotionless. "I'm sorry you had to find out this way."

I screamed as he lunged for me.

*It's over.* His hands were clenched tight on my wrists as he dragged me out from under the desk. I pulled back, trying to wrench myself free, but it was no use---

*Thump!*

A loud crash sounded behind us. Eric whipped around, and for a split second---his grip released.

I acted instantly. Pulled free from him and ran, pivoting around the desk and racing towards the door. As I glanced back, I saw Eric, starting after me.

But I also saw what had made the noise.

The painting of Anya had fallen from the wall. It lay askew on the floor, her gray eyes staring emptily upwards.

***

I was always a fast runner.

Eric was only halfway down the stairs by the time I was at the bottom. Bursting out into the cold air, I began to scream. He grabbed me from behind and tried to pull me back inside, but it was too late. Lights were flicking on. Our neighbor rushed out of his house, dialing 911.

It was over.

The police arrested Eric for assault. And once I told them my story, of his obsession with Anya's painting, they were able to search our house. And hidden in his office drawer, in a small box, was a pair of gold earrings.

The same earrings Anya wore on the hike that day.

The case is slowly mounting against him. I'm hoping, praying Anya gets justice and that a jury convicts him of her horrible murder.

And would he have done the same to me, if I hadn't escaped? If Anya's painting hadn't fallen off the wall?

There was an explanation, of course. When Eric had moved the painting to his office, he'd mistakenly installed one of the hangers into pure drywall. The weight of the painting had caused it to rip out, and the painting fell.

But sometimes, I think Anya was watching over me. That her self-portrait carried a piece of her. And that night, she'd protected me from falling victim to the monster who ended her life.

The painting now hangs up in my foyer. Every day I walk by it, and new details pop out at me: the deep, shadowy green of the room behind her. A perfectly-painted strand of blonde hair. The glint in her piercing gray eyes.

And sometimes, I think she's smiling back at me.

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