[ Highest Rank #101 in Mystery/Thriller ]
Time has passed. Things have changed. Isabeth, Benny, and Faith aren't quite the same. They have blood on their hands, a code they honor, and secrets they keep locked away. The Psychopath Maker knows this an...
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The little bell chimed as the door closed behind Faith. She let the cold air wash over her tepid face, chilling her open pores and drying up the sweat that percolated from her skin. She walked in an uneven gait up to the counter. It still felt like her thighs were whipping around the pedals of the mountain bike.
"Can I help you?" The young man behind the granite desk stood under the minimalistic sign that read, Dieter Sanders Gallery.
Faith swiped a trickling stream of sweat off her cheek, "I need a photographer for The Blackbird Tournament; it's urgent." She huffed leaning against the cold stone front desk.
"Well, I'm Aaron Nelson. Dieter's assistant. As you can see his work is displayed in the gallery." He gestured to the gallery of vivid photographs hung upon crisp white walls.
"Pictures. I see it." She nodded at the photos. "It's good enough." She pulled the wet Yale Rowing shirt off her flat stomach. It was treacherous but Giselle changed the locks to the beach house and it was all she had. "I just need a photographer now, really like yesterday."
"I can check his calendar but I can't promise anything." He tapped on the wireless keyboard.
She slapped her hand on his, stopping his quick strokes on the keyboard, "Can I just speak with him. I'm sure we could work something out." She beamed a smile.
Aaron wiped his hands from underneath hers. "I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you, kindly." She lifted her hand off the anally white keyboard.
Aaron scurried from behind the desk disappearing behind the red door on the side. Faith tapped the heel of her sneakers on the concrete floor. She checked the time on her watch; he'd been back there for three minutes. She decided to check out the gallery instead of just aimlessly standing there bored counting the glitter specks in her Pepto-Bismol pink nail polish. Massive portraits covered the slate walls, some black and white; some vividly colored however every model had the same beguiling stare. A stare that caused Faith to stop, read the story written on the eyes of the little girl. They were eyes of melancholy. They were eyes that stared back at Faith in the mirror.
"Her name is Sumayah." A steely voice spoke. "I took that picture two weeks after ISIS killed her parents."
"Where is she now?" She asked, wondering where the girl with eyes like her was.
"She's in an orphanage in Herat." He smoothly folded his arms behind his back.
"It was dumb of you to go to Afghanistan." Faith walked over to the other portrait; one of a young woman with majestic, faraway eyes and coal-black skin.
"Or brave of me, whichever way you look at it." He stalked her.
She walked over to another portrait. "How about this one?"
"Kassala. Eastern Sudan." He stood closely behind her.
Faith felt the chill of his breath on her back, she stepped to the side catching the tip of his foot under her lime green Chuck Taylors. "Are those her real eyes?"
"Amethyst." He smiled gingerly. "Yes. Enchanting, isn't it?"
Faith slid over to the next portrait. "Very." She held her hand up to the photograph then pulled it back fighting the urge to touch the picture; feel the energy the young woman emitted standing strongly in the desert alone. "You only photograph women, I see. Uniquely beautiful women."
"It's my new collection, A Rare Breed." He moved closer to her, invading her private space. "You can be in it if you like."
She smiled crookedly looking at the clear windows slightly being overtaken by a dark, heavy tint. "No. No thank-you." She scratched her ankle with the rubber sole of her shoe.
"Are you sure?" He whispered edging in a little closer. Faith combed her hand through her hair backing up. "Your distinct beauty should be archived."
"It is." Faith toyed with her bottom lip rubbing off the berry-bomb lip-gloss. "My grandmother has these elaborate portraits done every year. They hang in the ancestral estate in New Orleans."
"And what will the poor souls on the East Coast have to remember you with." He reassembled his black scarf, while his other hand slid in the back pocket of his faded light-wash blue jeans.
Her eyebrows shot up, "Beat's me?"
"Come on, Faith. Just one." His hand slowly slid out his pocket.
She leaned over, trying to see what his hand was doing. "How...do you.... know my name?" A faint tremble took hold of her. Her shirt was dry but her back still felt wet. "I don't think...I told him my name."
"Are you sure?" He deadpanned.
She looked around. An eerie silence cloaked the four walls. "Where is he?" She looked through the glass wall the separated the gallery from the entrance.
"He who?" He stared at Faith intensely.
Faith rubbed her neck feeling his eyes glazing over her fidgety skin. "Your assistant." She snapped her fingers toward the front desk, looking back at him standing behind her emotionless. "Aaron Nelson."
He looked at her like she was speaking Greek, which was one of the languages she couldn't speak. "I don't have an assistant."
"The guy that was behind the counter?" She urgently made her way for the front desk with quick, short steps.
"That guy!" He hurried behind her invading her shadow. "He's not my assistant but.... he is my colleague."
Faith's feet stopped while her brain yelled run. A tear slid down her cheek and her legs turned into silly string. Her eyes tether on the line between open and closed. She didn't even jump from the sharp prick in the back of her neck. Glimmering pink blinged in her eyes as her hand glided down the slick glass wall. Her head, it was the problem it wasn't the head she always knew; it was lighter than a feather floating in outer space. And as her head took a trip to Neptune her body was heavy as stone. Cascading. Falling. Plummeting into his arms, the arms of danger.
