Chapter Forty-Six

What the fuck was going on?!

Ravenspire was not a school, but a residence for the Blackens and nobody was allowed there. She was not Lucianne Bell, but Lucianne Blacken, the wife of Gabriel Blacken.

No… this wasn't right.

She escaped from his room, bolting to the side when a rough hand grabbed onto her forearm. She turned around to find Gabriel staring between her and his ransacked room.

"Wait, Lucie…"

She shoved his hands away and ran down the stairwell, rushing out of his mansion for her tower. When she was finally there, she fell to the ground, her mind spinning and her chest hurting.

She heaved and heaved, and emptied her breakfast on the ground before her. Tears flowed from her eyes, and she tried to think about something else, anything else, but images of the documents plagued her mind.

Lucianne Blacken…

She wiped her mouth, and got to her feet. Nothing was true! Everything was a lie! Everything was a fucking lie!

In her fury, she swiped everything on her desk to the ground, her glass paper weight exploding into shards everywhere. Her ink bottle splattered to the ground, the oxblood ink exploding outwards. She yanked the velvet from her canopy bed, and one of the poles broke in half, falling to the floor along with the fabric. She pulled her cupboard forward, and the entire piece of heavy furniture cracked on the ground, the wood splitting.

She continued wrecking her room, throwing vases across it and picking up clocks to slam it against the wall. Throwing photo frames -

Her eyes turned to the side. Right behind her cupboard.

There were large squares covered in an oversized cloth draped over it. She froze, her breath still ragged from the exercise she did earlier.

Did she even want to know what that was?

She took a step towards it, her hands touching the cloth. It was soft and felt like plastic. There was something underneath the cloth, and she didn't know if she was prepared for it.

She undraped the cloth.

And pulled out the large squares apart from each other, until they were all flat on the ground and right before her. Each and every piece of canvas.

They were all paintings. Paintings of the first girl who was found dead, her friend who died right after, the boy who fell from the window, Abbie, Jonas, every victim Ravenspire ever saw.

And they were painted with a distinct style. Her own. And she knew she could not paint from her imagination, only from memory.

The bodies on the canvas were in sharp detail, the manner of their deaths plain on the canvas. Every nuance, every element of the paintings were painted such that -

Only the murderer could've painted it.

She fainted.