by Kate Morris
“And so will a dead woman,” she reminds him.
“Pretend she’s just a patient in town,” he says.
She snorts. “If she were, we wouldn’t be doing a very good job in her care. Not much to brag about.”
His lips split into a grin, and then he laughs. “Very true. Just think of her as a victim, and you’re a forensic sketch artist. She needs our help. She was murdered today. She deserves to have her murder solved. We owe her that much.”
She hadn’t thought of it like that. It makes her feel even worse for the woman than for herself having to do this horrible task. Her brow knits together with determination, and she gives Simon a somewhat brave nod.
He ties her horse for her as she unhooks her art bag from her saddle horn. “I’m ready.”
“That’s my girl,” he praises. It irritates her the way he says this. She’s not his girl at all. She’s not anyone’s girl. But some strange and silent place in the pit of her, in her deepest core, flickers at the possessiveness in his tone. Sam tries to stifle them back down to the dead, dusty feelings they were a moment ago.
Simon offers her his hand, but having just upset her, she shakes her head and bites her lower lip. She’s determined not to let him in her life again. He broke her heart. He damn near broke her. She’s not going through that again. It took a long time to get over him. Reawakening those feelings would be way too painful to bear. She doesn’t think she’s strong enough to survive another Simon entanglement with her heart.
“Over here,” he states ahead of her and takes her hand this time without asking. “Deep breath.”
She does as he says and avoids looking at the corpse on the dirty forest floor by glancing heavenward.
“We need to help her, Sam,” he repeats.
Sam swallows the lump of horror in her throat and looks at Simon. He only nods and steps closer with her. He must’ve come over here and covered her body with a sheet. There is also a tree stump that he’s dragged over near the woman’s head.
“Here, sit,” he ushers with a wave of his hand to the stump.
Sam doesn’t want to go anywhere near her. Simon steps away and closer to the woman’s head where he kneels in his black cargo pants on the cold, winter ground.
“It’s ok, Sam,” he says again. “Don’t be afraid. I’m going to be right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
He extends a hand out in front of him, fully expecting her to walk over and take it, which she does, of course. It’s better than standing there staring at a corpse.
She sits on the stump and tries to avoid looking at the dead woman on the ground.
“Nothing to be afraid of,” he says and rubs his calloused thumb over the back of her hand in gentle, circular motions.
Something in the soothing tone of his voice and the way he is trying to comfort her causes just a little of her fear to fade away. Sam finally manages a nod and releases his hand, but not before Simon gives it a reassuring squeeze. She leans down and removes her sketch pad and pencils from her messenger bag he has placed there for her. Sam takes a deep breath and begins.
“Don’t think of her as something to fear,” he pacifies.
Sam nods and looks closely at the woman. Her eyelids are taped closed. It shocks her, and she reels back. She nearly falls off her stool.
“Sorry,” Simon apologizes. “I should’ve told you. I taped them closed. I figured it would make this easier.”
She takes a deep breath and turns back.
“Like a bandage, this is going to be easier just to rip it off and get it over with,” he says.
Her eyes briefly meet his, and she nods. Then she gets to work and tries not to focus on things like the dirt plastered to the left side of her face or the tiny sticks and pieces of leaves stuck in her light brown hair. She focuses instead on the angles and planes of her face from her brow line to her jawline, from the bridge of her nose to the cupid’s bow of her lips. Thankfully she spends a lot of time drawing people, mostly her friends and Simon, so she has the necessary experience it takes to sketch her out quickly. Within twenty minutes, she has the basic outline and proper color shading that reveal the woman before her.
“What color were her eyes?” she asks.
“Brown,” he answers.
She shades them in with a brown pencil quickly.
“I’ve got enough,” Sam tells him. “We can go.”
Sam abruptly stands, dropping one of her pencils, which Simon retrieves for her.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“More than,” she answers in a serious tone and collects her supplies. She shoves everything into the bag, including the sketch pad and erasers. “I can finish it back at the farm.”
“Sure, good.”
Simon doesn’t lead her back to the horses, but he is right there behind her as she rushes. He redirects her when she gets going slightly off course by placing his hands on her shoulders and turning her to the left. By the time she reaches her horse, she is panting from rushing and has thistles stuck to her jeans by being careless. She stows the bag on her saddle horn again and takes Simon’s assistance mounting. She doesn’t even wait for him to get on before she has her mare turned and walking away. Then she bumps her with both heels into a brisk trot that quickly turns into a canter across the top meadow once she reaches it. Simon is right behind her because she can hear his horse’s hooves. When the farm eventually comes back into view, she slows down to a walk. By the time they are both dismounted near the horse barn, the light of the sun has nearly set due to its earlier winter bedtime, which casts everything in a gray and navy-blue haze. It seems like it is the most difficult time of day to see in her opinion. There isn’t a startling sunset with brilliant splashes of pinks and oranges. It’s just a dull fading of the sun that didn’t make any direct appearances today at all anyway.
“Hey, guys!” Paige calls out from the aisle of the horse barn and approaches.
“Sis,” Simon returns and sends a wave as he leads his horse inside to have its tack removed.
“How’d it go?” she asks, her facial features screwed up with distaste.
“Fine,” he replies.
Sam is glad he’s doing the talking. Words are not coming for her so freely. She doesn’t wait for Simon’s help. She flings her leg over the back of the mare and swings her weight to the dirt floor of the old barn. Her hands shake as she takes her art bag and places it on a hook meant to hold horse tack.
“Here, Sam, let me help,” Simon offers as Cory comes in and volunteers to take Simon’s mare.
“I’ve got it,” she mumbles. Her voice is also shaking.
Simon must notice her hands because he covers her right one with his own and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “You did well.”
Sam just shakes her head not caring how he thinks she performed. It doesn’t matter. The task needed to be done, and she hopes she is never called to such a gruesome job again in her lifetime. Obviously, in her previous life, she couldn’t have become a mortician. What a gory profession that must’ve been.
“Why don’t you go inside now?” he suggests and pulls her hand away from the girth buckles of her English saddle. “Take a hot shower. Relax. When I come in later, we’ll work on the drawing.”
She doesn’t even argue. Sam simply nods and avoids making eye contact with anyone as she leaves the barn. By the time she hits the barnyard, she is already picking up the pace. By the time she gets to the chicken coop, she is running. She blasts through the back door with her riding boots on and doesn’t even get reprimanded from Hannah, who is at the island slicing bread for dinner. She rushes to the mudroom and removes her boots, leaving them in the middle of the floor. Then she flees to the second floor where she locks herself in the bathroom and vomits into the toilet. Her stomach is mostly empty because she hasn’t eaten since breakfast and spent most of the morning and afternoon out riding with Simon and the others looking for the murderer of that poor woman.
A soft tapping at the door draws her a
way from the commode, and she flushes and wipes her mouth. Then she opens the door a tiny crack.
“Hey, kiddo,” Reagan states gently. “Everything ok in here?”
She doesn’t even bother lying but shakes her head instead.
Reagan nods knowingly. She says with a soft sigh, “Yeah.”
“How the heck did you go through medical school? That had to be horrible.”
Reagan tips her head to the side as if contemplating this. Then she shakes her head and explains, “Not for me it wasn’t. I was fascinated by the human body. Still am. I don’t really see a corpse as a body anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s the former life vessel of the soul that used to own it,” she clarifies. “They’re gone. They’re spirit or soul or whatever you want to call it is gone. The body is just their shell. That woman out there, she’s gone. Wherever gone is. That’s where she went.”
“I know I’ve seen dead people working at the clinic, but that’s different,” Sam says. “I mean, they are always immediately taken away. I don’t have to sit there and draw them. Not after they’ve been dead all day.”
“Well, not after they were murdered like that, either,” she says. “What you did was a very brave thing, Sam. That took a lot of courage. Whatever Simon is thinking having you do that must be very important. I don’t think he’d ever want you to do something like that if it wasn’t.”
“I know,” she admits begrudgingly.
“Get a shower,” Reagan orders. “Grams always said a hot shower and a good night’s sleep could cure what ails you.”
“Yeah, she did,” Sam agrees, remembering her beloved Grams, the woman who single-handedly held the McClane family together.
“She was smarter than me. Smarter than anyone I know,” she says.
“Except maybe Grandpa,” Sam reminds her.
“Nah, he’s book smart. He can cure just about any disease and dissect symptoms, but he’s like me. We aren’t that great with people. Grams was the one. She had it all figured out.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, tearing up.
“You’re a lot like her, Sam,” Reagan praises and cups her cheek gently before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “See you at dinner.”
If she weren’t already feeling rather emotional over having to draw the dead woman, then Sam would be after that statement. She has never thought of herself as anything even close to the level of woman Grams was. She was a queen among queens. A mother above others. She was the epicenter of the family. She was everything to everyone and more.
She allows the stinging hot of the solar power heated water to scald away the grotesque images from her mind and even lingers a couple extra minutes in the shower even though most days everyone tries to shower as quickly as possible to preserve their energy source.
When she is finished, Sam dresses in clean clothing of navy blue sweatpants and a white, long-sleeved tee. Her hair, she towels dry and leaves down to dry the rest of the way on its own. She turns to leave her bedroom and notices her art bag lying on her bed. Simon must’ve left it there for her while she was in the shower. She’s not ready to deal with that yet. If Grams were still alive, she’d tell her to shower, eat a hot meal, sleep, and then tackle her problems. Sleep will come later, but she has a long night ahead of her first.
She joins the girls in the kitchen and helps carry trays of food into the dining room where everyone is gathering. They feast on turkey and mashed root vegetables. Sue has a great way of tricking the children into eating things they don’t like such as root vegetables. She mashes potatoes into them and calls it mashed potatoes. They are none the worse for the wiser.
The topic, naturally, circles around the dead woman in the woods, which is how everyone refers to her. Then they discuss the fact that their neighbor was shot at by the person they believe to be the murderer of the dead woman in the woods. Sam tries not to think about her. She hadn’t seen her earlier this afternoon. She’d had the luxury of waiting with the horses while Simon checked it out. Then he only told her what they’d found. Having to see her this evening made it so much worse. It also makes her a little mad. Nobody, man or woman, deserves to be murdered in the middle of winter and left for dead in the cold, hard forest with nothing but predator animals around for company. It’s cruel and disgusting treatment of another human being. It reminds of the behavior of those highwaymen. They also had no regard for human life.
“So, what’s your theory, Professor?” Cory asks.
Across the table from her, Simon sighs and says, “Not an entirely formed one yet. I’d like to wait until Sam and I work on that drawing before I test it out.”
“Sounds like a very scientific formula to use, son,” Grandpa praises with a solemn nod.
“Nerd,” Cory jeers, earning a frown from Simon. Cory just chuckles and moves on to another topic.
After dinner, the others break up and go about chores and handling the children. Simon leads her upstairs to her bedroom where they are going to work on the drawing. He’s never done art with her before, so she’s not sure what he is planning. He takes a seat on her bed next to her while she pulls the sketch pad from the bag. She frowns hard at the closed cover, not wanting to open it and remember that woman, the blood from her body frozen on the ground around her, or the tape on her eyelids.
Simon covers her hand with his own, “We’ll get through this. Just focus on the details.”
She looks at him directly and nods before flipping to the right page. Then a slow scowl comes over her. Beside her, Simon removes her tin of colored pencils.
“I want you to do a few things for me, ok?”
She nods uncomfortably and scoots back on her bottom until her back is resting against the wall. Simon follows suit so that he can see the drawing.
“What do I do? I wasn’t really finished with this. There’s a lot more shading I need to do,” she says.
“I know,” he tells her. “Your art is always amazing because you put so much detail into it. But I don’t want you to keep going with her this way.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want you to start over and draw her again. But this time let’s change a few things,” he says. “Do you remember her sister, Sofia?”
“No, I never met her,” Sam informs him. “I don’t know very many people up there at the general’s compound.”
“You know a few. You know General McClane and his wife. You know some of his staff. You know Dr. Avery.”
This causes her to sneer and look away. “Of course, everyone knows Dr. Eliza Miss Perfect Avery.”
When she turns to look at him because he is silent, she finds him grinning. She rolls her eyes. Simon takes her sketchpad and tears out the drawing of the dead woman. Then he places it on the bed beside Sam, leaning over her.
Simon frowns. “No worries. It’s unfortunate that you never met the two sisters. I only did briefly. Let’s just do the best we can.”
“’Kay,” she answers with confusion.
“Go ahead and start the sketch again. I’ll tell you what to change once you’re done.”
“Got it,” she confirms and has the woman drawn out in no time since the image of her face is right by her thigh. She even shades in with some color to get the full affect.
“Can you shorten the length of her nose and narrow it just a tad? Maybe tip the end of it up just slightly?”
“Sure,” she says. “But once I change the shape, it’s gonna be hard to change it back again. And I’m not going back out there to look at her again.”
“The men are already retrieving the body to be buried anyway,” he lets her know.
“Oh,” Sam whispers as her eraser takes on a mind of its own. When she does art, it sometimes feels this way. As if an invisible hand is doing the work for her. She does what Simon instructs to the nose and tilts the tablet so that he can better see.
“Good. Yeah, I think that’s right,” he says. “Her eyes should not be brown. Can you make them gree
ner? Maybe a hazel? And slant them more at the corners.”
“Yes,” she answers and gets to work lightening the brown tones she already used by dabbing at them with the eraser and adding in light greens and flecks of yellow. Then she narrows and lifts them at the corners. “Better?”
“Yes, that’s perfect actually,” he says. “Her face is more oval. Can you make her chin more pointed?”
It goes on this way for a long time, and Sam realizes that she has forgotten that this was a portrait of a dead woman. She still resembles the woman in the woods but has somehow taken on her own identity with lighter eyes, a more angular bone structure, and brows that have a higher arch to them.
“Her hair is dark blonde, not brown,” he says.
She gets to work with her supple gray eraser and starts subtracting dark shades of brown and replacing them with yellow and tan and light cream. Blonde hair has many differing shades in it. Many brunettes run the range of nearly black to auburn to light brown bordering on dark blonde. Simon’s hair is a deep auburn. She knows every varying shade on his head.
“There are waves to it, too,” he says. “Not curly like Reagan’s, but wavy.”
“Who am I drawing? This doesn’t really look like that woman out there at all now.”
“She still does,” he replies. “It just looks more like her sister Sofia.”
“Why am I drawing her sister?”
“I just have a weird hunch,” he says.
She looks directly at him and remarks, “So, now you’re some sort of psychic?”
He grins and answers, “No, not exactly psychic. Hopefully intuitive. That’s all. I’m just hoping for a lucky break here.”
“You wanted me to turn her into her sister?”
“Yes,” he replies, then smiles openly. “And you’ve just about captured her perfectly. You’re so gifted. Crazy talented.”
Sam has to look away. There is just simply too much intimacy in the way that he’s looking at her. And praise and adoration, if she is being honest with herself. None of those things are what she wants to dwell on and consider when it comes to Simon. Instead, she returns her attention to dabbing dark color out of her now wavy hair and putting back in lighter tones as Simon instructs her. She shades in pink and flesh tones to her face, deeper tones in the hollows of her cheekbones and on either side of her nose to add contour and dimension, and a subtle rosy hue to her wide, thin lips. When she’s done, Sam holds it at elbow’s length to inspect it.
