Read Online Framed and Burning (Dreamslippers Book 2) by Lisa Brunette - Free Book Online Page B

lauded, despite the waning interest, so he’d had a slew of requests recently from galleries. Those paintings had been spared. But he’d lost the other half of his life’s work, which left him feeling curiously numb. Maybe even lighter, as the personal loss took away at least a splinter of the guilt he felt about Donnie’s death. He was glad he himself hadn’t come away unscathed.
    Beverly opened up a database of his artwork that wasn’t complete, but that wasn’t her fault, as Mick didn’t pay her for documentation, and she wouldn’t do that anyway in the smidgen of her time that Mick could afford. So this was a list he was supposed to have catalogued, and he hadn’t kept up with it. She gave him a printout that was broken into two sections. The first listed the paintings lost in the fire. Some of these were accompanied by digital images, but most were listed only by name, date, and description. The other section listed his surviving paintings and where they might be, whether gallery or private collection. Most of these didn’t have images either. It was a forty-three-page document. Mick found himself doing curious math in his head, as Donnie had been forty-three, exactly twenty-five years Mick’s junior.  
    A page for every year of my friend’s life , thought Mick.
    Back home, Mick gave a copy on a thumb drive to Cat, who’d asked for it after Sergeant Alvarez had left.
    His grand-niece was sitting cross-legged on the couch, poring over a bunch of files from the Miami PD, and he knew the autopsy report was in there. Part of him wanted to read it, and part of him didn’t. He felt undone by his conflicting feelings, so he said nothing and slumped into a chair.
    “I just learned the fire decreased my net worth,” he announced, but he was staring at the reflection of the sun bouncing off the water in a birdbath outside. Nonetheless, he felt Cat look up at him.
    “Harsh,” she said. “The paintings? In your studio?”
    “Yup.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t be.”
    “Okay. I’m not.” There was a pause, and then she added: “I think most art is ridiculously overpriced anyway. I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, Uncle Mick, but eighteen thousand for that big red splotchy thing you painted?”
    Mick laughed. He should be offended, but on the contrary, he suddenly felt like he’d never loved his grand-niece more. He thought about that dream of hers he’d walked into the first night in Ernesto’s place, the one with her Ranger lover dude or whoever he was, and the pool of blood.
    “The Big Red Splotchy Thing,” he said. “That’s what I should have titled it.”
    “Sorry.”
    “Don’t be,” he said again. “It is a big red splotchy thing.”
    They both laughed, the laugh relieving the tension in Mick’s head a bit.
    “I’ve got the autopsy report here,” she said, motioning to one of the files in front of her. “Do you want to see it?”
    “I don’t know. Would you look at it if it were for that Ranger guy who got himself shot in front of you?”
    “Yes. I did look at his autopsy report, if that’s what you’re asking.”
    “But why? I mean, you were right there, Cat.”
    She looked away. “I don’t know,” she finally answered. “I guess the whole thing seemed unreal, so I wanted to make it real. I wanted to see it in cold terms.”
    “Did it help?”
    “Yes. And no.”
    “Give it here.”
    She reached over toward him, offering the slim manila folder. He took it.
    It was very clinical. He let the language wash over him, words and phrases like carbon monoxide poisoning and rigor mortis .
    “So the smoke killed him before the fire got him,” Mick said, feeling himself choke up.
    “Yeah. He probably died in his sleep.”
    Mick felt his eyes water. “That’s good. Better than what I imagined.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Once I went to hear this monk speak,” Mick said. “He talked about immolating monks, the ones who set themselves on fire. It’s the most painful way to