“We’re following some leads.About to talk to David Ellington.”
“The artist?”Frank made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh.“Strange fellow.Never could get a straight answer out of him when I was sheriff.”
“That’s what I’m expecting,” Jenna admitted.“Listen, Frank, has Piper said anything else about what she mentioned this morning?About ‘red is for rage’?”
“No more trances or messages, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It is,” Jenna confirmed.
“I haven’t told either your mother or Piper about the case or the yarn.”
“That’s for the best.Keep me posted if anything changes?”
“Of course.”Frank’s voice softened.“She’s doing well, Jenna.Better than I expected, considering everything she’s been through.Give yourself permission to focus on your job right now.We’ve got things covered here.”
“Thanks, Frank.That means a lot,” Jenna said as she ended the call.
“No new psychic messages?”Jake asked, eyes still on the road ahead.
“Nothing.”
“So, David Ellington,” Jake said, changing the subject.“What’s your take on him?”
Jenna considered the question, pulling together fragments of interactions over the years.“Brilliant but unstable.His art is...unsettling.But compelling.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Jake said with a short laugh.“Remember that installation he did in the town square last year?Those life-sized wire figures that seemed to be staring at you no matter where you stood?Gave me the creeps.”
“The town council nearly had a fit,” Jenna recalled.“But when they tried to have it removed, half the town protested.Said it was meaningful art that made people think.”
“And the other half said it was disturbing and inappropriate for public display,” Jake added.“That seems to be Ellington’s specialty—dividing public opinion.”
After they turned onto a country road, trees grew denser, closing in on either side of them.“Have you ever gotten a good read on him?”Jenna asked.
Jake shook his head.“Not really.He’s always seemed...elsewhere.Like he’s having a different conversation than the one you think you’re having with him.”He slowed the car as they approached a rusted mailbox leaning at an angle by the roadside.“The few times I’ve had to respond to complaints about his more public installations, I’ve left feeling like he somehow got more information out of me than I did out of him.”
“That’s exactly it,” Jenna agreed.“He answers questions without answering them.”
Jake turned the car onto a gravel driveway partially reclaimed by weeds and wild grass.“Well, let’s see what the yarn-buying artist has to say about Derek Sullivan’s murder.”
“It’s like entering another world,” she murmured as Jake guided the car down the rutted driveway.Ahead, barely visible through the trees, stood the weathered silhouette of Ellington’s Victorian home, its gables and turrets jutting against the autumn sky like something from a fairy tale gone wrong.
When they reached the yard, they found no manicured lawn or careful landscaping, just nature reclaiming territory and bizarre sculptures erupting from the tall grass like metallic growths.Human-shaped figures twisted in impossible postures, their hollow eyes seeming to track Jenna as she stepped from the car.
“Welcoming committee,” Jake muttered.
A narrow path wound through the artistic minefield, barely visible among the overgrown grass.Jenna led the way, unable to shake the sensation of being watched from all sides.A breeze stirred the tall grass, making the metal figures seem to shift and sway.
The porch steps creaked beneath their weight, the wood weathered but surprisingly sturdy.On the front door was an ornate brass knocker.Jenna rapped it three times, the sound echoing through the house beyond.
No response came.She tried again, louder this time, then called out, “Mr.Ellington?Sheriff Graves and Deputy Hawkins.We’d like to speak with you.”
Still no response.Jenna tried the doorknob and found it unlocked.She pushed the door open a few inches, the hinges protesting with a drawn-out whine.
“Sheriff’s Department,” she announced as they stepped across the threshold.“Mr.Ellington?”
The interior of the house assaulted her senses—a chaotic jumble of art materials, half-finished projects, and completed works that defied categorization.Sculptures of wire and clay occupied corners and tabletops, their forms suggesting human anatomy distorted beyond recognition.
From the ceiling hung mobiles made of found objects—spoons, keys, fragments of mirrors that caught and scattered what little light penetrated the interior.The effect was disorienting, like moving through a funhouse designed by someone with a warped sense of reality.
