Picking up the painting, I tilted it so I could see the spot. It was at the top, off to one side. It looked like a bit of paper sticking out between the backing and the frame itself.
It was probably just there to keep the canvas secure. Maybe the frame hadn’t fit snugly enough, so Edwin had tucked a bit of paper in the gap.
I was going to leave it—get up and find my box of picture-hanging hardware—but a whisper of curiosity crept through me. A shiver ran down my back, and suddenly I had to know what that little scrap of paper was doing there.
The backing board was held in place with small, flat pegs that turned so they tucked beneath the frame. I opened them to free the backing board and carefully lifted it.
What I’d thought was a small scrap—maybe even a ripped corner wadded up and stuffed into a gap—was actually a folded piece of paper. It was thicker than what you’d find in a notebook, but not as rigid as card stock. More like a page torn out of a nice journal.
I unfolded it and my eyebrows drew together as I read a note written in slanted cursive.
Someday, someone will search and find the answers. The hauntings that led to my demise. It was no accident.
I stared at the note for a long moment. What on earth? Had Edwin written it? I didn’t know what it meant or why it would have been tucked in the picture frame of one of his paintings.
So strange.
Turning the painting over, I held the note next to his signature. I was no handwriting expert, but it looked the same to me.
Hesitating, I chewed on my lower lip. I didn’t want to bother Theo while he was busy. But my curiosity had gone from a whisper to an excited squeal. A secret note tucked in a painting? He had to see this.
Taking the note with me, I got up and found him still in the dining room.
“I hate to bug you, but—”
“What do you need?”
He started to get up, but I waved him back down. “You don’t have to get up. I found something.”
“Where? In the room?”
I pulled out the chair next to him and took a seat while he moved his laptop. “No, in the Morris painting. In the frame, to be specific. A note.”
Spreading the note flat on the table, I slid it to him.
Confusion crossed his face as he read. “That’s weird. Did he write it?”
“I think so. It looks like the same handwriting as his signature.”
“The hauntings that led to my demise,” he read. “Do you think he meant literal hauntings? Like he thought his house or his gallery was haunted?”
“Maybe.Search and find the answerscould mean he hoped someone would discover what was haunting him.”
We both paused, gazing at the note. Another similarly disturbing idea entered my mind. What if Edwin Morris didn’t think he was being haunted? What if he thought he was being hunted?
“This is weird as hell,” Theo said, interrupting my half-formed thought. “But it’s even weirder considering the context.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mostly what we saw go down on Saturday. There was clearly more to this guy’s life than painting peaceful landscapes. Plus, you know, he’s dead. This note almost sounds prophetic.”
“Like he knew he was going to die?”
“Don’t you think? It’s not explicit, but it makes me wonder if he was worried something bad would happen to him.”
I met Theo’s eyes. “That’s exactly what I was just thinking. But not only that something bad was going to happen, like he had health problems and knew he didn’t have much time.”
“It was no accident,” Theo quoted.
