Excerpt

  Dressed and depressed, Kali made her way to the kitchen. She fed Shiloh on the deck in the morning sunlight. Running her fingers through her shoulder-length curls, she remembered last night's painting. She headed to her studio to take a look. She'd almost reached it when apprehension washed over her.

  The door was closed.

  She never closed it after painting. It wasn't good for the wet canvases. Since the room only had a small window, the paint fumes built up fast. She frowned. She'd been dead tired last night. Maybe she forgotten and closed it.

  Bolstering her courage, she opened the door and flinched as the fumes hit her nose. "Oh gross."

  Holding her breath, Kali moved a stool to prop the door wide open, then crossed to the window, shoving it as far open as it would go. Fresh air surged into the small space. She'd love a huge studio, but painting wasn't a full time career for her, as much as she'd like it to be. It was a release for the depression and madness that overcame her soul. Maybe later, when her soul couldn't do the rescue work, she could indulge her art as a creative hobby instead of just an outlet for pain and turmoil.

  Walking around the easel, Kali stopped in midstride.

  The painting stood where she'd left it. In surreal and strangely enticing clarity, blacks and purples and browns popped off the canvas. Heavy paint splotched in places, then thinned and stretched across the top.

  She stepped back and frowned. Up close, besides the heavy amount of paint, the picture looked like a distorted nightmare. Not surprising. But she caught a glimmer of an intentional design. She tilted her head and looked at it from a different angle.

  Sniffing the air, Shiloh ambled into the doorway.

  Kali smiled down at the dog. "Not very sweet smelling, is it?"

  She glanced back at the jumble of colors and stilled. There. She studied the abstract mess, letting the colors move and form to reveal the image hidden within.

  Shivers slid down her spine.

  Oh my God.

  No way.

  Kali blinked. It was still there.

  There was no mistaking the image of a person buried under small bushes, close to civilization of some kind shown on the horizon, with a series of rough rock formations in front.

  "What the hell?" she whispered.

  Kali was not a great artist, by any means. Blind escapism kept bringing her back to the process because it worked. She painted with wild abandon. The paint slapped on canvas with no thought but to discharge her pain and sorrow. For some reason it always worked.

  And it always looked like shit.

  This, on the other hand, was ingenious. Sure the subject matter was gruesome. Given her volunteer work, it was not unexpected, especially after Stan's news.

  The artistic abandon was still there. The paint was so thick in spots the picture was almost three-dimensional. The terrain had depth and movement. The light was dark and terse but still shone with gruesome clarity way beyond her artistic abilities.

  "It's fucking brilliant." It was also scary as hell.

  About the author:

  Dale Mayer is a researcher, technical writer, ghostwriter, and author living in the beautiful Okanagan valley in British Columbia, Canada. She has several business books published on Mortgages, Resume Writing, and Companion Gardening.

  s a complement to those books, she is also creating The Essential Series – encompassing topics in Careers, Gardening, Finance, and Lifestyle.

  In fiction, she writes taut psychological suspense with romance and paranormal elements, such as her book

  Tuesday's Child

  She has recently branched out into both mystery and urban fantasy books for young adult with the occasional vampire book thrown in just for fun.

   

  Connect with Dale Mayer Online:

  Dale's Website

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