32

Ashley picked up the brush again and lifted it to the canvas, except now the colors seemed all wrong. The light had changed too. She looked through the row of oversized windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, taking up the whole north end of the loft. Moody snow clouds had drifted in, casting a fatigued gray tint on everything.

Her hand jerked, leaving an angry slash in the middle of the canvas. A headache drummed to life in the back of her skull.

It’s not going to happen today.

She ignored the shiver that skipped down her spine.

This is a normal day. I’m painting a normal composition.

But it was too late. It was happening already. She squeezed her eyes shut against the images flooding her brain, but no resistance would help now. She couldn’t escape.

This time, the body—a man, midthirties—lay in a shallow grave surrounded by low brush. A distinct rock loomed nearby, blocking the view of a creek beyond.

The image stirred faint memories that refused to come into focus. Her headach