The Memory Painter

Unable to drive, Linz took a taxi to Bryan’s place. She ignored the elevator and ran blindly up the stairs. But as she approached Bryan’s door, she slowed. It was already open.

“Hello?” She walked in and found the place was trashed. Michael and Diana’s boxes were gone, the Super 8 projector had been smashed to pieces, and all of the films were missing.

But the worst was the studio. Every canvas had been splattered with black paint—the paintings had been destroyed.

Linz sank to her knees in despair. Only one painting had been spared, a magnificent lifesize portrait of an Egyptian goddess. Linz had never seen it before. It was a masterpiece, clearly the best Bryan had ever done.

Linz gazed at the goddess’s face, at the beautiful being created by Bryan’s hand. Sobs racked her body. She covered her face with her hands, unable to look anymore. She knew who had done this—and it meant he had Bryan.

There was only one person who could help her find him. And now that she had her memories back, she understood why he had been so afraid.



THIRTY-EIGHT