Page 5 of Cut Deeper

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Once I parked my car in my driveway, I checked my phone again. Still no messages. I would give it another few days and use a secondary location for the next pickup if need be. In the meantime, I could begin priming my canvas.

I slipped my phone into my purse and climbed out of the car. The house, the car, the money—all of it earned from my artwork. I never felt guilty for the wealth I’d accumulated. Each piece I created was part of me, and that came at a premium price.

I opened the back door and grabbed my overnight bag before heading inside. Keys in the bowl. Purse and jacket hung in the closet. Then into the utility room to empty my laundry out of the bag.

It was good to be home.

My real work could never be shared with anyone, but this house knew what I was. It had witnessed things that would be incomprehensible to most people.

My time on this miserable planet was limited. Who would want to live forever? I’d get caught one day, or someone would turn the tables on me while I was taking them out. Being cautious was one thing—in my earlier days, I’d been reckless. But there was always a chance I wouldn’t make it to forty.

I’d like my death to be interesting and messy. Ideally, making investigators vomit, being the cause of their nightmares. The thought made me smile as I climbed the staircase.

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The following morning, I tied my hair back and rolled up my sleeves, ready to work in the studio. The lighting was perfect, and I’d allowed enough time for snippets of the vision to appear.

Not black.

Not red.

This was blue. The kind of blue you only saw on a clear day, when the sun shone. It suggested life, air, a certain degree of calm.

I loaded the easel with a blank canvas. It was how we came into this world—completely blank. I moved to my table, but paused to stare at the scattered items across the paint-splattered surface.

The palette wasn’t in the right place.

I slowly turned my head and scanned the room. Nothing else seemed out of place. My gaze returned to the table.

My mind wasn’t playing tricks on me.

Someone had touched my palette. I had plenty more—that was beside the point.

The airing closet.

I ran upstairs, through the hall, into the spare bedroom and the closet. All the pieces of stretched flesh were there. I trailed a finger down the long strip pegged to the wire hanger. Neck to spine. Unblemished skin.

I considered the freezer, but I had too much produce covering the body parts in there.

Was I losing it?

Had I carelessly left the palette tilted like that?

It felt tainted.

All thought of mixing my colours for the perfect shade of blue came to a halt. I closed the door and walked down the hallway.

I could use a new palette.

The canvas that had been calling me since yesterday suddenly felt wrong. Perhaps a walk to the shops would clear my head. I needed milk anyway.

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The walk and fresh air helped, but as I approached my front door, I saw the white box. I gripped the bag handle, forgetting the perishables that needed refrigerating.

A delivery wasn’t unusual. But this wasn’t a cardboard box or a plastic bag.