Chapter Three
THREE
Dad has been flitting around the painting all day, and I get the impression Kim has been left with the honeymoon admin, so I made myself scarce a few hours ago.
I started to put my clothes away but got bored so tried to look for documentaries about The Four but there are none.
Instead, I binged a few episodes of my favorite true-crime show on YouTube while I snacked on leftover slices of wedding cake and reorganized my notebook.
It’s almost full now, packed with comments and scribbles from when I come across an interesting case.
It’s also stuffed with printouts and newspaper clippings, to the point where the whole thing is held together with a thick rubber band so I don’t lose anything.
It probably needs an upgrade, but it’ll last a bit longer.
I mainly use it to study theories on cold cases, a hobby that nobody seems to think is particularly healthy.
I’ve been texting Izzy to tell her all about the painting drama, and when she replies to remind me what time her train gets in tomorrow, I realize I’m on the verge of nodding off.
I have to admit, the pink bedding and throw pillows are very cozy.
I glance at my iPad while the end credits of what must be my fifth episode play out, and I debate watching another, but I don’t know if I’ll stay awake for another forty-five minutes on this duvet of clouds.
I turn it off and sit up, and that’s when a strange, herbal scent drifts down the hallway.
It’s overwhelming, even through my closed door, so I jump out of bed and peek out into the hall.
Kim is standing in front of the painting.
“Do you have to do that?” I force an exaggerated cough and wave my hand in front of my face as I approach her, even though I kind of like the smell.
She stops waving the bundle of herbs around and places it on a small golden plate beneath the painting.
“Sorry, but I thought it was for the best. Your dad has gone for a run, so it was now or never! He hates it when I sage the apartment.” The sage begins to smolder out, the smoke briefly distorting the portrait even further in the late-afternoon sun.
I suppress a shudder. “This thing creeps me out even more now that I know a bit of the history.”
“So you thought you’d season it?” I aim for sarcasm, but it falls flat. The painting creeps me out too.
“Sage is very powerful,” Kim says, almost wisely. “It’s been used in cleansing rituals for generations.”
“And in stews,” I mumble.
“Very funny. It’s why I chose the color for your room, you know. A fresh start here in Blackwood.” She looks at me and I can tell she thinks she might have overstepped. “I didn’t mean—”
I cut her off, deciding not to acknowledge it. “I just don’t believe in all that witchy stuff like you do.”
“Oh really?” She looks relieved and leans into it. “What about the tarot card I left you on your bed this morning?” She walks into the living room, pulls a small, well-thumbed book from a shelf in the book nook and opens it to a dog-eared page.
“The Two of Wands,” I read aloud, looking at the illustration of a man in a funny hat holding a big stick. I didn’t notice the card, which means it’s probably on the floor somewhere by now. “Honestly, Kim, you might as well have slid the two of diamonds under my door. It means nothing to me.”
“The Two of Wands is all about discovery.” Kim smiles, returning the book to its place. “I think that sums up your morning.”
“I suppose,” I say, settling myself on the sofa and grabbing the remote. She’s got me thinking, though. I did discover the self-portrait, didn’t I? So maybe I can find out where it’s been all these years. “Don’t those cards have loads of different meanings? You can read into them any way you like.”
“That’s the beauty of tarot. I like to pull a card every morning so I can prepare myself for the day. It’s a self-care thing. I thought I’d do the same for you, before we leave you on your own.”
“I won’t be on my own, Izzy will be here,” I say, turning up the volume on an old sitcom. “And like I said, I don’t believe in that stuff.”
Kim hovers in the doorway for a second and I can sense she wants to sit down and have a Talk with me, so I pretend to watch TV. “I’m going to go and finish packing,” she says instead. “Shout if you need anything.”
“Will do.” I breathe a sigh of relief and channel surf for half an hour until I hear the key in the front door. Dad’s back from his run.
“Kim, please tell me you haven’t been sageing the painting?” he shouts, but I can hear the laughter in his voice.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she calls back, and I smile. Seems like it’s a regular occurrence, then.
“You okay, Fliss?” he asks as he passes the front room.
“Yep. Good run?”
“Not my best, but it’s been an eventful few days, hasn’t it? I’m shattered, ready to relax.”
“Me too. I’m just jealous you get to do it in the Maldives.”
“Well, don’t be. You’ll have a great time here.” He pulls his damp T-shirt away from his chest. “Oof, I need a shower.”
He wanders off and I begin to hear the faint sounds of the shower, then Dad chatting to Kim as they bustle around in their room, presumably unpacking their wedding outfits and replacing them with vacation clothes.
“Hey, Fliss, you hungry?” he asks, sticking his head round the corner. “I thought the three of us could go out for a late lunch/early dinner before the appraiser comes round to view the painting this evening. Kim’s booked a table at the new Italian restaurant in town at four.”
“Oh.” I am hungry, but I look down at my baggy sweats and think of the effort it will take to make myself presentable for dinner. “I’m kind of tired after all the wedding stuff. I thought we were just going to slob out today.”
“We can,” he says as Kim reappears. She’s brushed her short blond curls into waves, and her lips have been painted scarlet to match her vintage tea dress. “You look lovely,” Dad says, cocking his head. “But I think we’re going to stay in now. Is that okay?”
Kim forces a smile. “Of course. We need to finish packing anyway. Let me call the restaurant.” I sink into the sofa, feeling guilty, as she pulls out her phone and leaves the room.
“You guys should go,” I say, and Dad’s forehead crinkles in surprise. “I’ll be fine here. I can make beans on toast or something. I am almost eighteen.”
“You’ve been seventeen for less than a month, Fliss. Don’t be in a rush to grow up.”
I roll my eyes as Kim comes back into the room with her hand over the mouthpiece of her phone instead of just putting it on mute.
“They’re going to charge your card if we cancel now,” she stage-whispers to my dad. “Is that all right with you?” Dad shrugs, but I interrupt.
“Honestly, you two go—you can start your honeymoon early. I’ll be fine here.” Alone. With a cursed painting. I shake my head at the intrusive thought. Don’t be ridiculous, Fliss. “I’ll watch a movie and just chill out.”
“If you’re sure?” Dad asks.
I nod, so Kim leaves the room to confirm with the restaurant and comes back with a handful of glossy leaflets.
“Maybe we can order you a pizza or something?” Kim offers me the menus to a bunch of local takeaways. “If you want anything, send your dad the order and we can bring it back for you.”
“Thanks,” I say. God, she’s trying so hard that I’m starting to feel bad. “And you do look nice, Kim.”
Her eyes widen, and for a second I almost think she’s going to cry, but Dad jumps in.
“You know the drill,” he says. “Don’t open the door for anyone, and call if you need us. We’re only at San Franco on Main Street, so we can be home in less than ten minutes.”
“Got it.”
Dad ushers Kim out, and I wave at them from the sofa, waiting until I hear the front door close before I scour the menus.
Apparently wedding cake is not a good lunch, because I’m ravenous, but I wasn’t lying when I said I’m tired.
I look at the menus but can’t even decide on the food I want because the selection is overwhelming, so I quickly send Dad a message asking him to just bring me home some pasta and garlic bread instead.
Then I pull the string that closes the wooden shutters and snuggle down into the sofa as my eyelids grow heavy in the now-dark room.
The cushion fabric smells like Kim’s lemony perfume, but I find that I don’t mind it as much as I thought I would.
It does make me think of my mom, though, so I send her a text, promising to try to speak to them all when they wake up—I think it’s still the middle of the night in Sydney.
Then I close my eyes and listen to the weirdly soothing sound of canned laughter on the TV.
My eyes fly open at a loud bang from outside the living room, and panic clutches my chest, though my limbs are still leaden, unwilling to move.
It takes me a second to get my bearings as my body catches up with my brain.
The living room is much darker now, because there’s no TV on, even though I was watching it when I fell asleep.
Has there been some kind of power cut? I check my phone and see it’s only six p.m. I’ve been asleep for almost two hours.
“Hello?” I call out, my mouth dry. I push the tangle of the blanket off, feeling my warm cheeks with one hand. God, it’s stifling in here. I pull the cord on the shutters so they creak open, sending dusty slices of light across the wooden floor. “Dad? Kim?”
No one answers. I check my phone, but the only text is a thumbs-up from Dad about my food. I get up to go in search of a cold drink before I remember the bang that woke me.
“Hello?” I try again, but my voice is kitten weak this time. It’s like my brain knows that if the noise was caused by an uninvited guest, then I shouldn’t be giving my location away.
I tiptoe to the door as my heart pounds against my rib cage and flick the light switch to check if it works. The velvety wallpaper whispers against my skin, but nothing else happens. I shiver. Definitely a power cut, then.
I slide open one of the living room doors and look out into the entryway, just as the TV starts up behind me. The sound is so deafening that I let out a little yelp. I sag against the doorframe as the lights blaze on in unison and I release a small, strangled sigh of relief.
Until I see what’s on the hallway floor.
“No,” I moan, kneeling in front of the painting.
The bang I heard was the portrait hitting the ground.
It must have been too heavy, because flakes of plaster and a rogue nail are scattered across the hardwood floor.
I pick it up, praying that there’s no damage, and relax when it appears intact.
I look at the brushstrokes in detail, their thick, clumpy texture turning my stomach.
It’s even creepier up close, and I can almost believe it threw itself off the wall to get my attention.
Well, curse or no curse, Dad will be upset if I don’t look after it.
Doesn’t mean I have to look at it, though.
“Let’s put you back here,” I say aloud, turning the painting away from me and propping it on the console table so I can only see the back of it.
There’s a layer of thick card stapled to the wooden frame that supports the canvas, and even to my untrained eye, it’s far newer than the rest of the portrait.
“There.” I straighten up, brushing off my hands on my sweatpants when something at the bottom corner snags my eye. “Oh, no.”
There’s a long, dark crevice along the bottom of the backing card where the right corner has come free.
I poke at it, hoping it will magically reseal itself, but instead I hear the crinkle of more paper.
Weird. I activate the flashlight on my phone and lift the edge of the card carefully, peering into the slim space between it and the canvas.
A newspaper page pokes out.
Before I stop to think about whether it’s a good idea, I hook my nails round the edge and pull at the card until I hear a pop, this one loosening the staple on the bottom left-hand side.
Pain slices across my palm as my earlier paper cut catches on the card, and I snatch my hand away, hoping I didn’t get blood on the canvas, as the newsprint starts to slide free.
I tug at the card with my other hand, widening the space to tempt it out, when a rush of paperwork falls out and hits the floor.
I check inside to see if there’s anything else, but I can only see the rear of the canvas over the stretcher bars.
I leave the painting propped on the table and drop to the floor, picking up the pages one by one.
There are several pieces of notepaper covered in the type of chicken scratch handwriting that is a headache to read, plus some news articles.
One showing four paintings catches my eye.
I haven’t seen them before, but I’d bet my meager savings that this is The Four.
I try to decipher one of the handwritten pages, but it’s useless, the scribbles and diagrams meaningless.
My head snaps up as I hear voices outside, followed by a key turning in the lock.
I race to my bedroom, feeling bad that I’m hiding these pages from Dad, but my brain is two steps ahead.
What if there’s something here that can help me unravel the mystery of where the painting has been all these years?
“Fliss, you awake?” Dad calls down the hallway.
I shove the entire bundle under the elastic band round my notebook and slide it under my bed, but not before I get a glimpse of the printed line at the top of each piece of notepaper.
From the desk of Professor Timothy Williams