Paint by Murders

Book One of the Emily Ellis Series AMANDA JAEGER Copyright © Amanda Jaeger, 2023 Copyright © 2023 by Amanda Jaeger All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Editor: Genevieve A. Scholl Cover Design: Troy Cooper Formatted by: Genevieve A. Scholl TABLE OF CONTENTS PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX A REVIEW REQUEST ABOUT THE AUTHOR ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Art: The expression of creative skill and imagination. Art for Art’s Sake: The idea that the purpose of art is the self-expression of the artist who creates it. Content Warning: Sexual Assault PROLOGUE Her scent fills me up like city tap water in a dirty glass. It’s a mixture of gritty coconut and salt. I hate it when they cry. It’s so irritating. So I bite back my distaste and put my hand on her cheek to caress her creamy skin. Women like touches like that, you know. Especially the young ones. It’s a sense of security they never had with their deadbeat dads and the carousel of boyfriends who never bothered to give them the attention they crave. So I give it to them. I touch them. I make sure they have everything they need to scream my name out like splattered paint in the wind. Because if they give themselves — their talent — to me, then I know I’ll have a seat reserved in The Circle calling my name. But she doesn’t seem to like it this time. She turns her head down, looking at the floor instead of my eyes. That won’t do. My hand pulls her chin up and I force her gaze to meet mine. “There, there. That’s better.” I make the cooing sound all the girls fall for with little-big eyes that scream, “I’m yours for the taking, as long as I can have you, too.” “You’re a monster!” she spits back, but it’s okay. I know she’s scared, and sometimes scared girls yell. I just need to make her understand she doesn’t have to be scared. Not with me. I care for her because I care for what she can do with her magical hands. They make such pretty things, and I want to own those pretty things and the talent they came from. I want to be able to witness her gift and let the world see it, too. If she can just let me in… My fingers rake through her auburn hair. It’s so freaking soft, like mink or fox fur. Her bare body squirms under me, trying to find its way free, but I pull her back. There’s no way I’m letting my soft minx go. Not without what I need. “What do you want with me?” Her voice sounds like a siren. It’s loud and piercing, and if we weren’t in this basement, hidden away from the rest of the living world, I’d be concerned someone might hear. I mean, she should know better. She’s been here before and plenty loud. She isn’t one of the quiet ones. She has never bitten her lip or tongue or my shoulder to keep herself silent. But no matter how much she screamed and cried and begged for more, no one has ever come knocking to check on us. “Shhhh.” I hold a finger up to her pillowy lips. “No need for any of that, now.” And there really isn’t any need. It’s just me. I’m inches away. I can easily hear her if she were to talk to me in a whisper instead. She spits. She literally pulls back the saliva and phlegm in her throat and forces it out of her mouth and onto my finger. Some of it flies past my finger and lands across my cheek and down the bridge of my nose. Disgusting. I wipe the sticky substance away with my sleeve. When I meet her eyes, I can tell she’s afraid of what I’m going to do with my fist. I’ll go ahead and bask in the control I know I have a little longer. It feels good, warm. Like golden sunshine on my skin. But even though my fist is clenched and pulled back, I’d never use my fist on her. That’s too bold, too brutal, too violent. Why would I ever want to deface the person who holds so much I want? I smile and lean into her. I can push past the smell of salt and take in the scent of her skin on her neck. The coconut is strong here, like she forgot to rinse off the body wash behind her ears. My mouth instinctively reacts, salivating in puddles because it smells so sweet. I want so badly to know if her skin tastes as good as her scent, so I run my tongue from her clavicle to her chin to find out. I’m right. It is sweet, but not in the fake coconut kind of way. In a way that makes me think of lily pads and cotton, though it tastes more like cream. Her body shivers and squirms under me. She’s not a minx anymore; she’s an octopus. Arms and legs are everywhere. I catch a quick glimpse of her nails. They’re usually long and bright, and most of them still