Chapter 2 – [THE BRUSHSTROKES OF A DEAD WOMAN]

The silence in the hallway was so absolute I could hear the rain starting to fall against my bedroom window.

“What did you just say?” I asked.

Sophie held the leather sketchbook with trembling hands. “The sketches. The five paintings you got accepted into the exhibition today. They’re drawn in here. By my mom.”

Dad dropped the trash bag. “Sophie, that’s impossible. Emily painted those this year.”

“I did!” I yelled. “I spent six months on them!”

Mom lunged forward and snatched the sketchbook from Sophie’s hands. “You have no right to go through my desk, Sophie! None!”

“Why do you have my mother’s sketchbook?” Sophie cried. “She died nine years ago! You told me all her art was lost in the house fire!”

“It was!” Mom snapped, her chest heaving. “This is just… reference material!”

I stared at my mother.

My five paintings were deeply personal. The old barn behind the school. The portrait of Grandma. The weeping willow by the lake.

How could Sophie’s mother have sketched them nine years ago?

Unless…

“Mom,” I whispered. “Did you trace them?”

Dad looked at me, bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

“The garden painting,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. “The photograph Grandma left me. It shows you standing next to the garden painting, claiming it was yours. But you didn’t paint it, did you?”

Mom’s face went rigid. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Grandma said you claimed someone else’s work,” I pushed, the pieces finally clicking together in my mind. “And now Sophie finds a sketchbook proving her mother drew my exact exhibition pieces.”

I looked at Sophie. She was pale, her eyes darting between me and my mother.

“She didn’t just steal a painting,” I realized, the horror washing over me. “Mom… did you give me those references? Did you set up the still lifes? Did you tell me exactly what to paint?”

Mom backed away, clutching the leather book to her chest.

“I was guiding your talent, Emily! You needed structure!”

“You made me paint Sophie’s mother’s unfinished work,” I gasped. “For years. You’ve been feeding me her sketches, making me recreate them.”

Dad looked sick. “Helen… tell me that’s not true.”

Mom spun on him. “I did it for her! To give her an advantage! Do you know how hard it is to get noticed in the art world?”

“No,” Sophie interrupted. Her voice was shaking, but it was louder than I had ever heard it. “You didn’t do it for Emily. You did it because you knew my mother was a genius, and you wanted to steal her legacy.”

Mom slapped Sophie across the face.

The sound cracked like a whip.

Sophie stumbled backward, clutching her cheek.

I screamed, stepping between them. Dad grabbed Mom’s arm, pulling her back.

“Have you lost your mind?!” Dad yelled.

Mom burst into tears, collapsing against the wall. “You don’t understand! I promised Clara I would finish them! I promised her on her deathbed!”

Sophie stared at her, tears spilling down her face.

“You promised my mother you would finish her art?” Sophie whispered. “Then why did you put Emily’s name on it? Why didn’t you give it to me?”

Mom couldn’t answer. She just sobbed.

I looked at the silver key in my hand.

The storage unit in the basement.

If Mom had the sketchbook in her desk… what was Grandma hiding in the basement?

I turned and ran down the stairs.

“Emily, stop!” Dad shouted.

I didn’t stop. I reached the basement door, threw it open, and raced down the wooden steps.

I found the heavy metal door at the back of the basement. The storage room.

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely get the key into the lock. It clicked. I pushed the door open and pulled the pull-string for the bare overhead bulb.

The room was filled with canvases. Dozens of them. Covered in white sheets.

I pulled the first sheet off.

It was a masterpiece. A stunning, vibrant oil painting of a little girl in a yellow dress.

It was Sophie.

I pulled off another sheet. Another masterpiece.

Every single painting in this room was brilliant. And every single one bore a signature in the bottom right corner.

Clara Vance. Sophie’s mother.

But as I looked closer at the signature on the painting of Sophie, I noticed something wrong with the date.

Clara Vance died nine years ago.

The painting was dated last year.

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