Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) Read Online Free PDF

jumping and my feet moving in the opposite direction, but instead, it left me curious.
    “How long have you been interested in photography?” I asked , as we broke free from the trees. The warmth of the sun embraced us and pushed away the damp chill of the woods.
    “Awhile.”
    “Any other photographers in your family?”
    He shook his head no while spying something else through his lens.
    “How about brothers or sisters?”
    He turned his head from the back of his camera to look at me. I could read the hesitation in his eyes. “One of each.”
    He stepped away — avoiding my eyes, my questions.
    Moving across the clearing, he aimed for the backside of the lighthouse and called over his shoulder, “I’m going to head around to the far side of the tower.”
    I picked up my pace. “Is that my cue to follow and protect you from the crazy lady?” I asked jokingly. “I don’t want to be accused of shirking my duties.”
    “Loyalty. A rare commodity.” There was no humor in his tone. We walked past a wall of luscious green trees, lined like s oldiers down to the waters edge. They stood strong, daring the water to try and take over any more land.
    “Are they older or younger?”
    “Who?”
    “Your brother and sister.”
    “Older.”
    We came to the back of the non-working lighthouse, now owned by the parks department, and walked the length of the building protruding from the tower. “Where do they live?”
    “Do you always ask this many questions?”
    We rounded the corner of the building, the Seattle skyline visible to the north. “Do you always avoid questions?” I countered.
    He stopped abruptly and spun around, his tall frame loomed over me. “San Francisco.” The air pulsed with his dubious stare. “They both live in San Francisco.”
    My nerves reared up and my mouth began an uncensored spout of words. “I’m sure you were dying to ask, but I’ll save you the breath. I have one brother.” I lifted my hand to block the glare of the sun as I looked up at his unreadable face. “Foster. Older. He just left for his first year at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo.”
    He shook his head in bewilderment. “Who are you?”
    “You used up that question the last time we met. You need to work on your repertoire.”
    Not waiting for a reply, I moved beyond him and focused in on the shoreline.
    I froze.
    It began.
    Tingles. Painful tingles. Up the back of my neck. Rocking me to the core as they marched with purpose over the top of my head, puncturing every pore like the rhythm of a sewing machine’s needle. The pain stealing the breath from my throat.
    The colors returned with a burst, displacing the pain as they began their intoxicating dance, spinning and morphing into patterns of brilliance. My body swayed and my limbs softened in response.
    “CeeCee?” Quentin’s voice fluttered through the colors, and replaced them with a hail of dark images. One after the other, they fell heavily inside me.
    Bam.
    Bam. Bam !
    A small rowboat thrashed in the water. Cracks of lightening flashed across the sky. Storm water rose everywhere, threatening to topple the little wooden boat.
    “CeeCee, do you want to sit down?” His words were barely a whisper above the roaring silence in my head. Words I couldn’t respond to, react to, my tongue latched down, every muscle in my body forced to focus on the horror unfolding before me.
    I sucked in a deep breath not yet stolen from me, trying desperately to regain control of my slipping mind. But the images pressed on. Painfully. Demanding my full attention. Demanding I focus solely on the shadowy figure that had emerged in t he chaos. A figure trapped in the boat, clinging desperately to the sides.
    No longer able to stand under the pressure, the pain, my body dropped. A ring of warmth circled my waist, softening the fall.
    “CeeCee?” His voice grounded me, a touchstone to reality, pacing my heart as the images raced by.
    I drew my legs up and curled into myself, the dark storm