Page 10 of Property of Anchor
He raised an eyebrow, and amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth.
God help me, he was even hotter when he smirked.
“I’m not here to be scared,” I blurted, gesturing wildly toward the house.“I’m here for this.To paint it.”
He blinked once.Twice.
“You’re the painter?”
His tone suggested I’d just claimed to be a dragon slayer.
I squared my shoulders.“That would be me.”
Anchor
The sensors at the bridge tripped just before the truck rolled into the parking lot and alerted me that someone was coming across.I was already watching the monitors, sipping my coffee, and trying not to think about the body still lying cold in the cellar.
I had figured it was the painter.
What I expected was some rolly-polly dude in overalls, maybe with a pencil behind his ear and a thermos of gas station coffee.
What I got was her, and I figured she was looking for a scare or coming to try and sell me something.
She stepped out of the truck and paused, scanning the grounds.Short and curvy, with a thick build that did dangerous things to my concentration.She had long hair braided loosely over her shoulder, a face that was way too pretty for this line of work, and legs for days tucked into worn jeans ripped at the knees.Her shirt was covered in paint splotches, some bright as candy, others faded like battle scars.She tugged a bag from the cab, something bulky and canvas, stuffed with what I figured were sketches and supplies.
Push hadn’t mentioned that the painter was a woman.Definitely hadn’t mentioned that she looked likethat.
I didn’t answer right away when she said she was the painter.Instead, I took another long look—her paint-stained boots, her confident stance, the way she didn’t fidget or smile just to fill the silence.
She stuck her hand out to me.“I’m Pearl.”
I looked down at her hand.“I’m Anchor, doll.”
Her eyes darted to the patch on my cut.“Yup, I kind of figured that out.Nice having your name on your chest.”
I wasn’t sure if she was shooting straight or maybe making fun of me.I gave her the benefit of the doubt and figured she was just shooting straight.“Let’s take a look inside,” I said finally.“Push didn’t mention you were...you.But we’ll see what you’ve got.”
I opened the front door, the old wood groaning like a horror movie cue, and let her step inside first.
She turned a slow circle in the entryway, and her eyes scanned the walls, the warped staircase, and the massive chandelier that rattled any time someone slammed a door.
“Okay,” she said.“So, starting here, we could rework the lighting to highlight that chandelier.Maybe add a flicker effect to make it feel unstable.Paint-wise, a cracked plaster effect could really sell the age.”
She moved from room to room, rattling off ideas like she lived in them.The crypt room?She wanted moss texture and water stains like it had been leaking for decades.The butcher’s hallway?She suggested layers of peeling red and brown that looked like dried blood without needing props.The nursery?She wanted to stencil faint ghostly childlike handprints behind peeling wallpaper.
I found myself nodding.More than once.
We climbed to the second floor, where she gestured toward the fake asylum room.“We could make the walls look like they were scratched from the inside out.Layers of claw marks, stained tile...It doesn’t feel scary right now.”
“Things change in the dark,” I said.
She shivered.Not dramatically.But enough.
She turned and looked at me, and for a second, I forgot she was just here to paint.Something about her—sharp but soft, tough but wide-eyed.I didn’t know what the hell it was, but it pulled me like a hook under my ribs.
She was an outsider.I reminded myself of that.She wasn’t part of this world.She didn’t know about the tunnels, the meetings, or the body we were still trying to identify.
Still.
