1. The Horror 2. The Staircase 3. The Dream Of The Sea 4. The Wave 5. Second Sight 6. Gran's End 7. Revelation 8. Return To The Sea 9. Back To Reality 10. A New Beginning 11. Dorothy's Story 12. Epiphany 13. Traffic Stop 14. Resolve 15. Exposure 16. Cover Up 17. Adjustments 18. Getting Out 19. Thoughts 20. A Not-So-Quick Errand 21. The Crime 22. Shock 23. A Night Out 24. Encounter In The Club 25. The Trip North 26. Resentment 27. Sexual Orientation 28. An Unexpected Call 29. Another Clue 30. Tension In The Air 31. Gossip 32. Gran's House 33. Last Hope 34. The Kiss 35. Terror 36. Release 37. Goodbye 38. Epilogue

Author's Chapter Notes: Plenty more chapters are already in the works.

Henry could do nothing but stare, open-mouthed. I'd never seen him quiet for this long at a stretch and it began to worry me. Finally he managed, "It's horrific, truly horrific. It's like a car accident that I can't look away from."



"C'mon, Henry. Have a little respect," I replied to my boss. "This is my grandmother you're talking about."



"Andrew, you know that I have nothing but the deepest and warmest regards for your grand-mere and her luxurious works. Her paintings have touched me in places that I normally only allow very special people access to. But this one, my dear boy," Henry paused for dramatic effect, gesturing with great flourish at the canvas, "this one... is SHIT."



Over the course of the summer while working at the gallery, I gotten used to Henry Metcalfe's flamboyant yet blunt way of coming across. In fact, I had quickly come to like and even appreciate it. As the manager of the gallery, I originally thought his brusqueness translated to displeasure. But it wasn't long before I came to realize that this was just due to his certainty and confidence in his own opinions. And moreover, Henry was usually right.



However in this particular case, he was hitting a nerve. This was Dorothy Aberdeen's painting he was talking about. A well-respected and loved artist for decades, not to mention a founding member of arguably the most well-known Canadian group of painters and initiators of a whole new artistic movement, the Northern Six. But most importantly, she was my grandmother! And not only that, but it hadn't even been two months since a serious fall had taken her from us. So needless to say, the subject was still a little raw for me.



Her will had recently cleared and much of her belongings were left to me, with the rest going to my mom. My mother and I were her only descendants. But even if we hadn't been, we would still likely have received the proceeds of her estate. Since my mother had never married and was a single mom with a full-time job, my Gran had helped to raise me and all three of us were very close. I was sure that she'd left the bulk of it to me due to the fact that I was still a student and could certainly use it. And even though being a highly-regarded painter didn't necessarily translate into excessive wealth by any means, it was still a comfortable amount of money. But the majority of her estate was from the contents of her house, including this recently-finished work of art that I'd received that day, which was now propped up on the couch in my living room.



"I know it's not her usual style, Henry," I finally responded. "But there's something about it. I don't know what, but it really draws me in. And I'm not just saying that because she's family." I meant every word. While Henry had joked that he couldn't look away as if it was a car accident, I truly felt engrossed by it. My eyes flicked across it, from one point of interest to the next, but never left the canvas.



Henry cocked his head to the side to adjust his gaze. "Andrew, my boy, her change of style holds no significance to me. Change is good. It shows spontaneity, creativity. All are beacons for the qualities to strive for in any form of artistic endeavor. I've loved her early landscape work just as much as I've loved her macro-realist work, regardless of how vastly different they are. This however," he again paused and flourished, "this is devoid of any feeling at all. It's like a vacuum. A true horror."



I heard a faint snort of a laugh behind me. Turning, I saw it came from Derrick, who had just entered the room, guitar slung over his shoulder as it often was. In the years that Derrick Lambrecht and I had been friends and housemates, he was always in one band or another. The current one was a punk-reggae band that did only Rolling Stones cover songs called Jumpin' Jack Clash. So even though we were both Arts majors in university, his focus was on the music side while mine was in art history.



"You have something you'd like to add?" I questioned him.



"Yeah, I gotta side with Henry on this one. You know I loved your Gran, dude. But are you sure she wasn't just using this canvas to clean her brushes on?" he smiled back.



I knew that they were trying to get a rise out of me. But I also knew that their comments were coming from a place of truth. Even though they were both pushing it for my sake, they still legitimately hated the painting. But why couldn't they feel what I was feeling? I found it utterly captivating. So rather than let them continue to pile up their criticisms, I decided to shut them down completely, adding a bit of a smile so they knew I didn't mean any offence, "OK then. Well, with all due respect, fuck both of you."



Henry let out a roar of a laugh, his jowly face jiggling. "Well put!" he said, clapping me on the back. "We'll have plenty of time to debate this further, but a smart man knows the proper time to retreat. And I'm nothing if not a smart man. I'll leave this with you for now, but bring it into the gallery later when you're ready. As I'd said, regardless of its questionable artistic significance, people will still be interested in seeing Dorothy's last work. We can add it to the others. So I'd be delighted to hang it if you're willing to loan it to us."



"Absolutely," I responded. "I just want to take it in for a bit. I'll probably get it to you later today. Thanks again, Henry."



"Any time, my dear boy."