“If somebody broke in and ripped open this wall safe to get at the paintings . . .”
All at once, she realized. “Why didn’t they take them?”
“Exactly.” He thought a moment before he went on. “The only people here yesterday were Grant and Hunter. I would bet my life neither of them would do anything like this. They’ve been inside every house in Wharton, and let me tell you, some very wealthy people call this town home for the summer or year round. Grant and Hunter are as trustworthy as they come.”
That might be true, Tess thought. But not being tempted to steal some family heirloom candlesticks or expensive jewelry was one thing. An undiscovered Sebastian Bell was something else entirely. The heady thought of what it would fetch at auction was enough to turn anyone’s head. People had killed for much less.
She took one step toward the row of paintings, Storm watching her every move. As she looked closer, she saw they were in the same terrible order they had been in the studio when she found them.
First, the images of Wharton’s streets at night, then the ones that were views into the windows of homes, then the woman on the street, then the same woman posing in the studio with the angry red streak on the wall behind her, and finally that ominous, haunting image of the cliff. A darkness, an anger running through all of them.
“My God,” Wyatt whispered, taking a step closer, too, seemingly lost in the world the paintings depicted. “They’re so . . .”
“Disturbing?” Tess finished his thought. “I know. Sebastian’s work always had sort of ominous undertones, but deliciously so. These . . .”
“These are something else,” Wyatt said. “I see exactly what you mean.”
Storm moved in front of Tess, positioning himself between her and the paintings.
“The way they’re laid out like that,” Wyatt said. “It looks like a storyboard. You know, like they use in advertising or even in movies to lay out how the scenes are supposed to go.”
The idea caught in Tess’s throat. That was exactly what it looked like. But a storyboard of what?
They stepped closer and took it all in. Wharton’s streets on lonely, rainy nights, fog rising in the air. Views inside houses where families were going about their lives, some happily, some decidedly not. Whatever the scene, these were not an inside snapshot of family life. They were a voyeuristic intrusion. And then, a woman, on the streets alone, viewed from behind. Followed. Stalked. The same woman in the very studio where Tess had discovered the paintings. And then the cliff, deep and dark and dripping with evil.
All at once, the realization hit Tess like a freight train. She didn’t want to believe it. And more than that, she wanted very much for Wyatt to be gone. He had to leave before he realized it, too.
But she turned to him and saw it was too late.
“Are these telling the story of . . .” He caught her eye, but somehow he couldn’t say the words aloud.
“A predator,” she whispered.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tess’s body was vibrating with dread. Now that she had seen it, she couldn’t unsee it. These paintings, her grandfather’s paintings, were telling the story of a predator who stalked the streets of Wharton, looking into windows, following women down lonely streets. Convincing one of those women to pose in his studio.
And then what? What did that red gash behind her on the wall mean? The paintings were obviously a series that told a story. But was it fiction? Or fact?
Who was the predator?
Was it Sebastian Bell?
No, no, dear God, no, Tess thought. A gnarling took hold in the pit of her stomach. He wasn’t just her grandfather. The thought of him potentially being a stalker, or worse, would be bad enough. But Sebastian Bell was a favorite son of Wharton. Beloved locally, respected and admired worldwide. What would her father say if he knew?
As she stood there in abject horror, Wyatt moved closer to the paintings. He slipped a pair of glasses out of his pocket to get a better look.
After a long, horrible moment, he turned to Tess. “Am I crazy? Come closer, and look at this.” He pointed to the painting of the woman on the street, then to the one in the studio.
“They’re obviously the same woman, right?” he asked. “At least it appears they are. But are we sure?”
Tess looked more carefully. The image of the woman on the street was painted from behind. She had the same hair as the woman in the studio. It certainly looked like they were the same person. Didn’t it?
Then, Wyatt pointed to the other paintings, the ones depicting scenes of families, as if seen from outside, through their windows.