He fell to his knees clutching his sore gut.

“Here I am!” said a jolly curator. He looked down at Wood. “Oh my, is there something wrong?”

“Nothing,” Madison said. “Just being all dramatic over a sore stomach, it’ll be fine.”
Harrison nodded and handed her an address, 457 Clandestine Road.

“Thank you,” she said. “Also can we get your phone number? So you can call us if anything comes up.”
”Certainly.” Harrison said handing her his card.

“Thanks.” She said.

“Not at all, mind you did you get a close look at the painting?”
”Not really.”
Wood was back on his feet.

“What’s this white line here for?” he asked tracing the line with his finger.
”I don’t know, maybe a mistake or its supposed to be something.” Madison said.

“During the final hour of the painting, a good artist always looks at his work to analyze the cons and pros.”
Madison leant back up.

“Well, that’s all we need so far, thank you for your time Mr. Stanley.”

He nodded. “Stop by again sometime, maybe next time we can converse about magnificent art.”

She nodded and dragged Wood out back onto the street.

“That wasn’t helpful.” He said.

“What?”
”Dragging me out like that.”
”Oh like anyone cares.”
”They will, it’s a bad image.”
”Image?”
”I have to keep my standards up, its just a regulation, you’re a freelance you don’t really care do you?”
Madison looked up.

“What were you saying?”
”Never mind.”
She handed the slip of paper to Wood.

“I don’t know where it is, I’ll follow you if you know.”
”I got a GPS.”
”Cool.”
She mounted her bike and followed Wood out on the road.

The location was out of the city and deep into the forest where a small community resided.

They were a literary society who named their places of interest with convoluted words that mean simple things.

Wood got out of his car, moist dirt caked the wheels.

“This the place?” Madison asked.

“What do you think?” he responded curtly.

She shrugged.

The area was moist with rain, a large building made of logs stood before them. In fact, all the buildings that they had seen so far had been made of timber.

The door was open.

Wood entered first and Madison behind him.

The inside was dark, and small shafts of light got through the gaps between the logs.

Everything was gone save fro some tables and some easels leftover.

“Search the area for any traces of the Artist.” Wood told her.

“I know what to do, I’m not a rookie like your girlfriend.”
Wood faltered.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”
”Sure…” Madison responded.

“You don’t believe me don’t you?”
”Of course not, there’s no need to hide it, a friend of mine says that you shouldn’t be tempted by girls with hearts of silicone and chests of air, you’re all good.”

“Shit…”
”What was that?” she asked.

“Nothing.”
Wood scanned the easels and saw little containers with red paint in them.
Then he realized it wasn’t paint.

“Hey Madison come here.” He said uneasily, not because it was what he thought it was, but he used her first name for the first time in front of her. It felt demoralizing.

She looked up. “What?”
”I think I found something.”
She strode over beside him; she looked closer at the liquid.

“Are you saying it could be blood?”
”Yeah, no idea whose though.”
”Take a sample, forensics can identify it later.”
Wood carefully poured some of the blood into a small tube and pocketed it.

“You find anything?”
”No, we’re done here.”