Liz James flicked the cash register shut with a barely stifled sigh. She handed the customer her wrapped sculpture and a receipt, then mustered up a smile.

“Thanks so much!” she said. “I’m sure it’ll look great on your son’s fireplace mantel.”

The woman—a tourist in from Freemont—nodded her appreciation, tucked the package under her arm and exited the store. And Liz let out the sigh, glad that the clock over the door read three minutes past five. She slid out from behind the counter, quickly flicked the lock shut, then stole a quick glance outside before she began the roll-down of the shutters. Hers was the last building on the block, which meant she had a good view of the rest. They were all already closed and dark. She was, as usual, the slowest at getting things shut down. She fought yet another sigh.

She usually loved her job. She loved the art. She loved the customers. She really loved being her own boss. But today had seemed especially long. Her biggest supplier—the man who also held the lease on her art store and the apartment above where she and her daughter lived—had dropped off a dozen extra paintings first thing in the morning, and Liz had spent most of her hours trying to find a home for them. As always, the stock sent in by Jesse Garibaldi wasn’t particularly high-end. But she knew it would move quickly, anyway. The man seemed to have an endless stream of interested parties who were willing to pay top dollar for the pieces.

She’d asked once where they came from—both the paintings and the buyers—and Garibaldi had explained that an anonymous local artist did the work. The pieces were nice, but not high-end, so Liz just assumed they were a side job for someone who didn’t want his name associated with the work. They sold exclusively through Garibaldi, with 50 percent of their profits going to one of his own local charities. Liz could hardly say no to the sudden influx of new pieces and the guaranteed profit.

She took a step back and studied the most prominently displayed one. It wasn’t anything terribly exciting. Well done but not outstanding. A landscape piece. A mountain in the background, a stream in the forefront and trees dotting the horizon. Except for the water, it could easily have been the view from a dozen different spots on the outskirts of Whispering Woods. The blue trickle told Liz that it was somewhere farther up the mountain.

Though she’d never ventured up the slope herself, she knew from one of her customers—a retired engineer—that a glacier-fed lake existed on a plateau, and that the river sloped down the other side. According to the engineer, the river was somehow the main source of water for all of the town. Liz couldn’t remember the details. Her eyes had glazed over and her ears had shut down when the engineer attempted to explain how it all worked. Liz could talk about art history for hours. She had museum layouts memorized. But pipes and water pressure were a whole other story. The engineer had laughed and waved his hand in front of her face to check for signs of life, then called her a hopeless artist. And Liz had agreed. Engineering wasn’t her forte or her passion. But for some reason now, staring at the painting made her wish she’d paid just a little more attention.

Whoever the painter is, he or she is a heck of a lot more adventurous than I am.

For a second, the thought gave Liz a twinge of longing. Unconsciously, she reached up her hand toward the swirl of blues and greens and grays. As soon as her fingers met the canvas, she realized what she was doing and started to jerk back. Then stopped, frowning. Even though the pad of her index finger had just barely brushed the surface, the texture struck her as odd.

With a guilty look toward the door—pushed on by a ridiculous feeling that someone might actually be peering in and watching what she did—Liz pressed her fingers to the painting again. When no one burst through the door, she pushed a little harder. It felt...off. She dropped her hand and stepped back to study the painting again, this

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