Long after Hannah and Claire had gone home and everyone was in bed, Brett walked into the kitchen. He rinsed his coffee mug and placed it in the dishwasher.
Dave and his family were staying at the ranch tonight. Thomas, worried about being on his own, had opted to join them. For the first time in many years, each room in Pat’s home was filled to capacity.
It had been a tough day for everyone. The only good thing about the day was that Pat had been so distracted, he hadn’t had time to miss Stevie. But the police still hadn’t found the person who owned the wallet and Dave’s dad was being uncooperative. Something had to change. Dave and his family were so stressed that Brett didn’t think they’d ever feel safe again.
He wandered into the living room. Beneath the Christmas tree, Pat’s toy train sat silently on its tracks. The engine’s deep, emerald green paint gleamed under the Christmas lights, promising more fun in the morning for Dave’s brothers.
Brett checked the doors and windows. He turned off the lights and walked into the entranceway. Like Thomas, he’d decided to sleep in Pat’s home. He wanted to be close to everyone, to make sure nothing happened.
The security system was turned on and the downstairs area was dark and silent. He climbed the stairs, knowing that he needed to at least try to get some sleep.
He looked around the open space at the top of the stairs. Over the last two weeks, the landing had alternated between being a sitting area and an art studio. Tonight, it would be his temporary bedroom.
He touched the table Hannah had used for her paints and brushes. He didn’t know much about art, but he thought her painting was amazing. Her landscape wouldn’t have looked out of place amongst the paintings Ida had collected.
He pulled off his sweater and socks, leaving on the rest of his clothes in case he needed to make a quick exit. He hoped nothing happened but, after today, anything was possible.
He reached above his head and switched off the light. The old wooden house creaked under the weight of fresh snow. The wind, almost nonexistent during the day, whistled along the gables, hinting at the storm they would battle tomorrow.
He pulled his blankets higher, then frowned. Something wasn’t right. He stayed where he was, listening for anything out of the ordinary. Apart from someone talking in their sleep, no one was making any noise.
His hand knocked the light switch, throwing the dark landing into a haze of brilliance. He squinted, not sure what he’d missed, but knowing he’d overlooked something.
His eyes skimmed across the landing, shooting back to an empty space on one wall. He was sure there’d been a painting there yesterday.
He threw off his blankets and walked across the room. The Winslow Homer painting was missing. He checked the landing, looking behind the table and fold-out bed. It wasn’t there.
Hannah had covered some of Ida’s paintings in tissue paper and stored them in the attic. The small oil painting could have been put away, but Hannah hadn’t said which ones she’d wrapped.
There was no point rummaging through the attic. He’d only wake everyone and undo the work that Hannah and her sister had finished yesterday.
He pulled out his phone and went downstairs. Hannah wouldn’t mind if he called her, especially if one of her favorite paintings had disappeared.
Brett glanced at his watch. Or maybe she might.
***
Hannah closed her eyes and tried to relax. After sharing a large slice of cake with her sister, she knew her chances of getting any sleep were hopeless.
But today had been one of those Christmases when sleep was optional. You couldn’t ignore someone sending a threatening email or promising to hurt another person. It was no wonder Dave’s family was stressed. At least her own mom wasn’t violent or abusive. She just didn’t want anything to do with her daughters.
As she turned onto her side, Hannah hugged her pillow close. If it hadn’t been for Pat, Brett, and Mrs. Bennett, Dave’s family would have had a terrible day. Their lovely Christmas lunch and the unexpected gifts they’d exchanged had made everyone smile.
With a frustrated sigh, she looked at her watch and frowned.
If she weren’t asleep in ten minutes, she’d find a book to read or escape to her studio. Claire would be horrified if she saw her painting at one o’clock in the morning, but it was better than spending another hour tossing and turning.
Just when she’d resigned herself to not sleeping, her cell phone rang. She stumbled toward her dresser. No one called this late unless it was important. “Hello?”
“Hannah? It’s Brett.”
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing. Well, something has happened, but I’m hoping you can tell me it’s okay.”
Hannah rubbed her forehead. She must be more tired than she thought because Brett wasn’t making any sense. “I don’t understand.”
“Do you remember the oil painting by Winslow Homer at the top of the stairs?”
