Epiphany Jones Read Online Free PDF

on my arm. ‘It’s very important you didn’t lie to us about anything just now. It would look bad for you. If you need to make any corrections, now’s the time.’ My thoughts turn to Harriett, but I remain silent. ‘We’ll have follow-up questions in the coming days after we verify your story,’ the detective warns. ‘Don’t take any trips.’
    ‘Why don’t you go home and get some rest?’ Donald says, as he walks me out. It’s dark now and Michigan Avenue is black and shiny from the cold rain. A cab is waiting. ‘It’s been a hard day for everyone. Try to relax tonight. Go home and watch some TV. And take tomorrow off.’
    Before I get into the cab I try to lighten the situation with a joke.But here’s the thing: even though the joke is stupid, Donald, who never smiles at me, lets out a laugh so theatrical I get the impression that he thinks if he didn’t laugh I might hurt him. I also get the feeling that he only walked me out because he wanted to make sure I left.

    A dim light shines from the distant downtown skyline through my living-room windows. I walk through the darkness into the kitchen and turn on the ceiling lamp above the table. I run the faucet and scrub the dried vomit from under my fingernails. That’s when I’m surprised to find I’m weeping a little.
    Who could put a tripod through Roland’s eye? Why would someone? Then I think, what if they’re some kind of art-museum serial killer and I’m next? And as I’m standing at the sink, scrubbing homeless vomit from beneath my fingernails, I suddenly get the feeling that someone’s watching me.
    But pangs of hunger quickly replace my paranoia and I grab some milk and a bowl of Trix and plop down hard on the aluminium kitchen chair.
    I should call Mom. I don’t like Roland that much, but he’s been a good friend to her, especially after Dad died. I should call her; tell her he’s in the hospital. I wipe my odd little tears away and take a spoonful of cereal into my mouth. Later. I’ll call her later.
    The crunch of the cereal echoes in my skull as I go over everything that’s happened today. The sludge in my head hasn’t left. It still feels like I haven’t slept in weeks. And as I eat, gazing into the darkness of my living room, I still feel someone watching me. And then, with a spoonful of coloured children’s cereal frozen in front of my gaping mouth, I catch two green eyes leering at me from the darkness.
    Without taking my eyes off the eyes watching me, I grab a kitchen knife and inch my way into the living room just enough so I can feel around the wall and find the light switch. And that’s when I see it.
    The Van Gogh.
    And what do you do when you find a stolen painting worth millions sitting on your living-room sofa? You lock the doors first of all, and then you close the blinds. Then you search your house for the person who put it there. Then a thousand thoughts fire through your mind like bullets. How’d it get here? I should call the cops. No, they’ll think I stole it. I should call the museum. No, they’ll think I stole it. I should sell it. No, I need to calm down.
    I turn on the TV. I need to relax. No such luck. A reporter is talking about the stolen Van Gogh. She’s on location, in front of the lion statue outside the museum.
    On the TV, the reporter says, ‘On loan from an unnamed benefactor…’
    She says, ‘Estimated value: over ten million…’
    She says, ‘Employee attacked in his studio…’
    I am in so much trouble.
    Then on the TV, the reporter says, ‘Sources close to the case have just informed us that they may have a lead.’
    And this is where I expect the reporter to tell me to wait just where I am. The police will be right over. Finish your Trix.
    ‘Police are saying that they have questioned and released – for the time being – a “person of interest” in the case,’ the reporter is saying. Then the image on the screen cuts to footage of the museum from this afternoon. You see a