ANNY
Four weeks after the camera is found, I paint my first blue sky since the wedding.
It is uneven and too dark near the edges. I love it anyway.
The sunroom smells of linseed oil and new canvas. Oliver has kept his promise not to turn the space into a gift from him. He did not hire a decorator or fill the shelves with supplies I never chose. He gave me the key, helped carry in a table, and waited for me to decide what belonged here.
His reflection appears in the glass door behind me.
“Ucker sent another report,” Oliver says.
I put down my brush. “Did he trace the camera?”
“The transmission was routed through six disposable accounts. The last number was activated in Spain and destroyed two hours after the photograph was sent.”
Another path designed to end before it reaches a pers
