A room of broad canvas and a boy with crimson dripping from the brush in his hands to the bones of his knuckles. Rows of supplies, odd and seemingly inexplicable, fabric and paper, synthetic and gel.
“—thinking of it,” the detective finishes, quiet and bruised.
“Right, well. We’ll give it a go on a test section and see if it works, let you know.”
“Cheers, Grace.” He hangs up, still feeling pressure around his eyeballs from the assault of memory.
“That’s clever,” Casper offers from where he’s reappeared across the chilly room.
Vince only shrugs, drowning for a moment.
The results of the test must be good, because Vince is pinged a series of photos detailing the freshly recovered stains—properly lit, this time, no shaky torch beams.
He eyes the door. The realities inherent in putting
