Art Theft Book 1
by Kris Bock
Jenny stepped up onto the porch and paused. Tears stung her eyes in the cold night air as she gazed at the graceful pattern of vines carved into the heavy wooden door. How many times had she rushed to this door with a sense of coming home? Growing up, she had spent every summer at her grandparents’ art camp. Maybe she hadn't been back as often in the last ten years, but it had still felt more like home to her than any place else in the world. And now she couldn't bring herself to reach for the doorknob.
She took a deep breath and turned away to gaze up at the dark sky. Stars splashed across the moonless night, so many stars she could hardly pick out the constellations, but the band of the Milky Way shimmered like a streak of glitter paint on velvet paper. Despite all the times she had gazed up at that sky, the sight jolted her. After a decade living among the lights of New York City, it was easy to forget that nature had her own Great White Way.
Of course, during her summers in the northwestern New Mexico mountains, nights had typically been mild, even at over 6000 feet elevation. Now in early March, at nearly midnight, the temperature must be dropping toward freezing. Maybe that was why the vast, chilled sky felt so distant and lonely.
Jenny leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. She was so tired. The last 36 hours had been a blur of grief, desperate planning, and travel across the country. But she'd been tired before that, for months, maybe even years. She couldn't remember the last time she hadn't felt exhausted, discouraged, hopeless. At least she was used to running on caffeine and willpower.
She hadn't made plans beyond getting here. Thank goodness for Ms. Espinoza, the camp secretary, who was handling all the funeral arrangements. Jenny simply didn't have it in her to tackle that as well.
Maybe she'd take a few extra days and rest. But she couldn't bring herself to enter her grandparents’ house and go to bed, knowing she'd be alone. When her grandfather had died three years before, her heart had broken. Now her grandmother was gone as well.
Jenny tried not to imagine her grandmother's last moments, when the car she was driving had skidded off the twisty mountain road two days before. She tried to blank out all thoughts, all grief. She took a ragged breath, the frigid air searing her lungs, and blew it out slowly, hoping to empty her mind as well.
Her thoughts refused to quiet, but Jenny's heart ached with emptiness, a dark hole as vast and cold as the night sky.
***
Jenny's consciousness dragged her out of sleep slowly, her body resisting. She blinked, trying to make sure her eyes were really open. She could see nothing in the pitch black. Where was she?
Memories broke through the fog. The phone call, the rush across country, the late arrival. Crawling into bed in her grandparents’ upstairs guest room. She groaned and pulled up the blanket. She hadn't thought to set an alarm, but obviously it was still the middle of the night.
The old house creaked. Other than that, it was eerily silent. Maybe that's what woke her; she was used to the faint murmur of city sounds all night long. Who'd have thought that would become normal?
Her head pounded. Probably dehydration from the now unfamiliar high elevation and dry air. She should get up, drink a glass of water, take a couple of aspirin. Her head would thank her in the morning. If only she could make herself move.
The house creaked again, followed by a rhythmic sound – like footsteps. Jenny jerked upright, her ears straining. Had she heard a voice?
She shook her head. She must still be half asleep, dreaming. Imagining her grandparents were still here. Wishful thinking.
