She Runs Away

She Runs Away An Artemis Blythe Mystery Thriller Book 6 Georgia Wagner Text Copyright © 2023 Georgia Wagner Publisher: Greenfield Press Ltd The right of Georgia Wagner to be identified as author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 All rights reserved. The book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. ‘She Runs Away’ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and events or locations is entirely coincidental. Table of Contents Prologue: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 What is next for Artemis Blythe? Also by Georgia Wagner Want to know more? About the Author Prologue: 20 years before... The artist worked, and the muse wept. To the sound of tears, the acrylic paint streaked the canvas in slow motions. The faint scent of the paint lingered in the small, windowless room. “Chin up, please,” the painter said softly, his eyes roving from his work to the muse in the seat. The young, brunette woman shifted uncomfortably. The wooden chair creaked with the motion, and her fingers fiddled with the arm rests. She let out a fluttering little sigh, shifting again and trying to find a comfortable position. Her eyes kept roaming towards the door, desperate. The man at the easel sighed, lowering his paint brush briefly, and resting it over the top of a tainted water glass. A couple of times the paint brush attempted to roll off its purchase, but both times he caught it, adjusted it, and made sure everything was neatly arranged, properly ordered—not an item out of place. He adjusted the small bottles of acrylic in order of color. The painter felt you could learn a lot by the colors someone liked. In fact, it was often his opener. His current muse had mentioned her favorite color was aquamarine. Now, she was crying from eyes that weren't quite aquamarine, but close enough that most wouldn't see the point in quibbling. The artist, though, wasn't most. And his version of quibbling was often a far more strenuous type... and painful. The woman's legs were tied to the wooden chair. Her hands had been released for her to strike the required pose, but now, as she continued to glance fearfully at the door, his patience was waning. “Eyes forward, if you please!” he snapped. She looked ahead quickly, pretending as if she hadn't been ogling the door handle like a divorce attorney watching a voluptuous bartender during happy hour. He'd known a good number of divorce attorneys. His nose wrinkled, and he stood slowly up, dusting his hands and adjusting his apron fastidiously where it protected his clothing beneath. Appearances mattered. Beauty, for beauty's own sake, was a reward in and of itself. He approached the woman in the chair and watched as she recoiled, exhaling faintly, her breath coming in rapid gasps. “P-please,” she said urgently. “My... my roommates are going to wonder where I am!” He shook his head once, brushing her hair from her face, behind an ear, and studying her exquisite features. He chose for a very specific reason, and she'd more than satisfied his criteria. “No,” he said softly, almost gently, his voice still calm, quiet. His eyes flicked towards the workbench on the other side of the room. When she'd first spotted the tools there—screws, hammers, nails, pliers, she'd panicked. But what did she think he was? Some sort of sadist? He wrinkled his nose again and softly murmured to himself. “Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain. I love you still among these cold things.” He smiled softly at the cadence of the words, the knuckle on his pointer finger grazing her cheek. He said, quietly, “Do you know who penned those words?” The woman was shaking her head again, sobbing. She was a Freshman at the local college. Well... local where he'd taken her. They'd traveled some hundred miles since. But when he'd recruited her for this project, her vibrancy, her youth, her fresh skin, her smiling eyes... All of it had spoken to him of the beauty in nature itself. The beauty born from the womb. “Pablo Neruda,” he said simply. “Do you know who that is?” The young woman loosed a small sob, shaking her head feverishly. Her curled hair swished, her hands gripping the edges of her seat. “Please!” she begged, her feet shifting, her skinny jeans rubbing against each other. Her shoes, some newfangled brand beginning to be advertised on the internet. He'd never much understood the appeal of internet, but more and more homes across the United States were slowly opening their doors to the thing. In fact, he'd heard tell that some companies were attempting to put internet on cellular phones! This young woman had possessed one such phone. He glanced again towards the workbench where the brick-looking device rested next to her purse. Just a trend, he thought. The car phone, in his opinion, had already been a step too far. All of this technology, this... this internet... was slowly, over time, spoiling creativity. Robbing the mind of those beautiful and deeply necessary silent moments. “Chin up, please!” he repeated like a doting mother admonishing a