Chapter 8 - The Portrait on the Wall
By winter, the rain had turned to a light, powdery snow that dusted the rooftops of Southeast Portland in white frosting.
The craftsman cottage looked like something out of a holiday postcard, complete with a wreath on the front door and warm golden light spilling from the windows. Inside, the living room had undergone a minor interior redesign—one that Sarah and Lily had orchestrated together over Adrian’s mock protests.
Hanging proudly in the center of the living room wall, right above the brick fireplace, was a framed canvas.
It was an oil painting, commissioned by Sarah from a local artist using one of Vincent’s old surveillance photographs, refined with real-life precision. It showed Adrian standing on the front porch with his arm around Sarah, holding Lily’s hand, the three of them smiling against a backdrop of autumn leaves.
There were no faceless figures. No blanks. No ghosts.
Just a family.
On a Sunday afternoon just before Christmas, Adrian sat on the living room rug with Lily, helping her construct a towering Lego castle that defied every known law of architectural physics.
“Dad, if an army of trolls attacks the castle, how do we defend it?” Lily asked, holding a plastic knight with a chipped sword.
“Well,” Adrian said seriously, inspecting the plastic fortifications, “first, we make sure our perimeter is secure. Then, we don't let them past the gate. And if they do get past the gate... we have Mr. Buttons stationed in the guard tower with a very stern look.”
Lily burst into a fit of giggles, throwing her arms around his neck and nearly sending his bad shoulder into spasms of white-hot pain. He didn't flinch. He just held her close, breathing in the scent of strawberry shampoo and kindergarten paste, knowing that he would burn the world to ashes before anyone ever took this away from him.
Later that night, after Lily was fast asleep in her small bedroom and Sarah was resting upstairs, Adrian stood by the window in the dark, staring out at the rain slicking the quiet suburban street.
His phone buzzed softly on the windowsill.
It was an encrypted text from Vincent: Volkov’s second-in-command just booked a one-way flight to Portland. ETA tomorrow morning. They’re looking for you, boss.
May you like
Adrian stared at the screen for a long moment. Then, with a cold, deliberate motion, he typed his reply:
Let them look. Tell the boys to prep the warehouse on 4th Street. We’re going to welcome them to Oregon.
