Anonymous Dreams by Hadena James

Author:Hadena James
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: aislinn cain, us marshals, Serial Crimes Tracking Unit, serial killer thriller, dreams, no sexual content
Publisher: Hadena James
Published: 2020-01-19T00:00:00+00:00

Eighteen

I was posing as an artist to get a look around the studios. Xavier was pretending to be my husband, also an artist. He sketched landscapes, apparently, and I was working on my first novel. I was carrying a laptop that was really Fiona’s. When we’d called for the appointment to look at a studio in the building we thought Paul the Hacker worked out of, we’d needed a cover story. Xavier had a stack of sketches and I had the draft of a manuscript that Nadine Daniels was writing. She’d sent it to Fiona, Fiona had printed it and stuck it in my bag. We’d told the building manager we were both interested in taking studios, preferably as far apart as possible so we didn’t annoy each other.

It turned out the sketches really were Xavier’s. I had never thought he might be an artist, but he was. His subject matter was dark; demons, death, and all sorts of things. He sketched and then shaded with colored pencils and ink. It was strange to know that Xavier was a talented artist. He carried the sketches in a large flat leather bag-like thing that wasn’t really a bag, it was called a sketcher’s portfolio or something like that. He’d told them if we liked the spaces, we’d probably put down a deposit today on them. We really needed to find a place to work other than our house, since his sister and her children had come to live with us after her husband was murdered, and the artwork gave her kids nightmares. He added to that by saying they kept messing up my laptop and printer.

The tour started in the art store. It was owned and operated by the family that owned the building. The female was an artist of some renown, apparently, although I was able to feign ignorance of it, since I was a novelist and not someone who did stuff on canvases and things of that nature. Xavier had heard of her. The store carried all sorts of things I didn’t understand. They had colored pencils that were $60 apiece, outrageously priced in my opinion. There were also all sorts of tubes and containers of paint, canvas, specialty papers, glue, cray-pas, charcoal pencils, chalks, and standard copy paper, which I was told they stocked because some of the artists in the building needed plain white paper for printing plans, and there was another novelist in the building. They informed me that if I told them what kind of printer I had, they’d stock the ink it took for me.

Xavier came to my rescue by rambling off a printer brand and name. He even knew what number the ink cartridges were. We went to the second floor next. There was a large room with overstuffed chairs and couches in leather. There was a woman sitting behind a desk in what we were told was a reception area, where we could arrange to meet prospective gallery owners and literary agents without them interrupting our work by being early or late and us not being ready.

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