Instead of listening to that sixth sense, however, she approached her home her sanctuary, obtained because of its isolated beauty, instantly beckoning

Skye Weston was in turn livid shocked and stunned.  She’d known something was wrong the instant she’d turned into her driveway, a feeling, a frisson ran the length of her arms and down her spine. It wasn’t something she spoke of with others because few understood that that gut instinct, sixth sense, whatever you wanted to call it, worked.  Even cops would tell you, when your gut says get out, or run, do it!  Don’t second guess yourself. 

Instead of listening to that sixth sense, however, she approached her home her sanctuary, obtained because of its isolated beauty, instantly beckoning her with its six acres of land surrounded by a forest of old-growth trees, and a river running the length of her property.  It was peaceful, serene, and beautiful. An artist’s dream!

Skye immediately hired a bevy of gardeners to spruce up the gardens at the front of the house, neglected for so long. A profusion of flowers skirted the veranda in a colourful display ranging from the humblest of flowers like sweet Asters to brilliant Azaleas beguiling Begonias gentle Bluebells the fullness of Chrysanthemums and more.  

Her concern centred over what she’d find once she opened her front door.   A few weeks ago, someone had broken into her house and ransacked the place.  Nothing had been taken but they’d thrown all the dry goods in the house on the kitchen floor, even dragging bagged flour to the front room and tossing it about.  The fridge’s contents had been dumped and the dishes smashed.  The rest of the rooms hadn’t faired any better with cushions shredded and tossed, plants she’d lovingly tended dumped, cracked pottery littering the living room floor, but oddly, the vandal(s) hadn’t taken anything.  That was something even the police found incongruent.  They’d left a warning “leave…leave now…” in spray paint on the bathroom mirror.

The cops were concerned, vandalism wasn’t huge in this quiet little township, nor was violence…more often than not, it was something simple like someone imbibing a little too much, a heated argument between friends, sometimes lovers, but nothing serious…not lately!

Chief Gordon Jenkins was concerned by the underlying message…the underlying anger epitomized by the amount of damage caused and of course the threat.  He had a gut feeling there would be more, an escalation of events, the threat was there.  Someone was working their way up the ladder.  He hadn’t wanted to spook Skye Weston, but he had concerns for her safety.

The house had stood empty for over six months without a buyer.  Mr. Anderson had passed a year ago and his family wasn’t interested in keeping the place and put it up for sale immediately.  There’d been others who’d shown interest but not enough to buy, not until Skye Weston.  In all that time, the place had stood empty, without a single problem.  That had him scratching his eyebrow in concern and asking, why now, why her? 

Skye stomped her way down the drive to the house.  She would not be scared away…this was her home, she loved it and intended to stay, end of story!  Keys in hand she hurried up the steps, crossed the veranda unlocked the front door and entered apprehensively.

Taking a deep breath, she made her way through the house.  She wasn’t sure whether to be thankful or not since so far, nothing was out of place.  So far, nothing was amiss, nothing out of place, everything was as it should be.  Stopping for a moment, she wondered why she’d felt so uneasy.  She’d come and gone on several occasions since the vandalism had occurred, and not once had she felt this way. 

Walking back to her studio which faced the river, she was aghast.  The room was destroyed.  Her canvases were shredded, the paint had been thrown and scraped all over the walls, her chair had been thrown through the window and the curtains hung askance.  Her beloved studio had been, for lack of a better word, obliterated.

Leaning back against the far wall a tear ran down her cheek.  This hurt, it hurt big time.  Her art was everything to her.  Pulling her phone out of her purse, she dialled the number Chief Gordon Jenkins had given her and waited.

The second he’d seen her number come up, Chef Jenkins was on his feet.  “Damn it!”  he’d known there would be more.

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Sat Feb 15 , 2020
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