LOGINAs soon as the wifi automatically connected she replied to Madam Alice.
-So tell me, what is his name-
Without dressing or taking a moment to re-establish herself, she went to her computer. She remembered what Crystal told her: As red as a Cezanne apple. The colour red started to get on her nerves, from the beginning of the case it's all she's heard. Blood red, blood painting, she brushed off the thought. She puffed." What's so good about red anyways?"
Harry heard and commented from the adjacent room. " Red is sexy."
She shook her head and smiled. "Since when do you like the colour red?"
She waited for his response and got another. Madam Alice broke the news, abruptly her surroundings started distorting. Her thoughts were already muddled and this made things worse. She typed the name into her laptop and results appeared in the form of news articles.
"The Anderson case", she murmured. Forgetting Harry's failure to respond she called out to him while scrolling the page. He didn't answer. She carried on reading.
" Anderson's Apple Press", she read the name of the last known relative," Mrs Tiffany Anderson".
She called out to Harry again." Harry?"
There was a notebook in her desk drawer, she took it out and wrote. "Nothing is as red as a Cezanne apple." She remembered. "The saying is all wrong, it's not as red as a Cezanne apple, it's as round as a Cezanne apple."But what difference did that make? On her notepad she wrote with a question mark, what difference does that make?
Her pen wasn't set on the table, it was thrown. As her breath caught in her throat, she scratched at it. Scared and unaware, she tried to scream. As the pressure tightened, her surroundings became hazed. All she could think of was Harry. Her body was fixed into place, by a weight greater than her own. Before she knew it, her eyes turned over. There was a pinch between her eyebrows, and jump in her chest. She was soon rendered unconscious...
She was wearing a classic trench coat, with a fedora and that hid most of her red hair. Sitting across from a concerned family, she stated."Like any private detective, I have seen many things in my years, even previously as a former agent."She took her hat off and entwined her fingers. "But nothing could have prepared me for what was to come." As the husband held his wife in his arms, she wailed as the detective continued. "I am sorry for your loss."
There she was. As a lusting satyr grabbed at a feminine figure, Dona was now the sleeping Hermaphrodite artwork. Approaching her from the rear, Harry thought she represented Venus, but, the front side revealed something unexpected.Why had she been represented as Aphrodite's son and not Aphrodite herself? She was stark naked, posing like a doll with no expression. He wanted to touch her, to stroke her cheek and feel the urgency of the scene in front of him. His chest was caving in, and he found it hard to breathe. The tears st
The doorknob twisted and a light twinkling of metal came from outside. With murderous intent, Harry flung open the door, clinging onto the arch in need for support. Like a cunning serpent, he entered the garden of artworks. Grabbing his phone torch; he lit his way through the gallery.The air was dry, and his sinuses gnawed at him. He sneezed so hard he stumbled into something near the wall. It was wet paint. The gallery was still in the making, the interior design was incomplete, but there were
No matter the room, the smell of rotting flesh followed him like a shadow. He had to steady himself on the walls, trying to escape the voices. Fervent wailing and inaudible speech vibrated all around him. He staggered his way to an unassuming door at the far end of the house.He turned his back to it as soon as he fell, rolling down the door with his stomach clenched. He held his head in his hands, shaken and confused he looked up. Looking down the hallway, the paintings and all their tumult ceased. He was now able to breathe,
*Trigger Warning* This chapter contains graphic contents.Breathless, he stood outside of Tony's residence. His throat was dry, as he swallowed in the sultry rage bobbing around his apple. He kept flicking his forefingers together. It was the witching hour, and he didn't care.
His ribs convulsed with every breath as he sat on the edge of the bed with his hands on his knees. Sweating profusely he tried to stand but rocked his way back to the bed. He felt groggy, a headache, was waiting for him along with the clutter of a new day. He stood and stretched his shoulders, twisted his neck and walked towards the studio.He'd find himself wandering around like a desert wind, without a place to rest. He tried to stay busy with something other than work- he knew that it was a bad idea to be enthralled by the