The Vanishing Girls by Callie Browning (read this if txt) 📕

trying to cover up for his brother. For too long, he had paid for Paul. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life regretting that doing so had caused him to lose her.

“Is there anything else?” Eileen’s raised eyebrows were clear in their meaning: she’d listened, but she wouldn’t simply swallow his explanation. Holden stood there for a moment, suddenly aware that as much as he wanted to stay, he couldn't do so without a plausible excuse. He couldn't blame Eileen for wanting to mull over what he had said; he would have to give her time. “Well…the taxi left. Do you mind if I use your phone to call another?”

While he waited for his transportation to arrive, Eileen offered him a glass of juice. And as he sipped, Holden looked at the paintings. His eyes hopped from one to the other, unable to choose a favourite. Finally, he asked the obvious question, even though he knew he would kick himself if it sparked action on her part.

“Why aren’t you a full-time artist? Your work is very good.”

“I don’t think so,” she replied as she glanced critically at the canvas closest to her. “This one needs something…a detail that would make it sparkle.”

“I’m not very artsy,” he admitted. “But they make me feel something deep in here,” he said, touching his chest.

She blushed.

“I’m not against nudity. It’s uh…very pleasing,” Holden gestured vaguely at the painting of the woman on Broad Street. "But why are so many of the women naked?”

Eileen smiled and cocked her head to the side as she studied her art. “I think they’re me. Or at least the me I want to be.”

Holden averted his eyes. It wouldn’t do to stare at a painting depicting a nude employee, even if they had shared a kiss. He wondered if it would be any less immoral to buy a painting and keep it at home. Surely no one could judge him then.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s herself…not a slave to fashion or society’s expectations. Who knows? Maybe I'm so idealistic that I have to paint a world that gives me the freedom this one won't."

Holden grinned at her cocky retort. An idealist forced to live without perfection was a difficult space to occupy without some sort of release. “It certainly explains how you’ve managed to carve out job satisfaction at a funeral home.”

She threw back her head and laughed.

“It’s true. The makeup, the flowers…you’ve certainly got an eye for these things.”

“Why, thank you.” Her smile was enough to warm his heart.

“So why didn’t you ever tell me that you painted?”

She lifted a shoulder half-heartedly. “I don’t know. I wasn’t sure if they were good. Plus, I never planned for the world to see them.”

“Why not?”

She sighed. “Some people have diaries, but when my mind is in turmoil, I pick up my brushes.” She looked at him from uplifted eyes, “Would you want someone to read your diary? To weaponize your words against you?”

Holden swallowed, suddenly feeling like he was taking up too much space, inhaling too much sanctified air. “No…I’m sorry. Your work is private. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

She wiped her hands on a cloth as she turned away. “It’s alright. Recently, I’ve come to grips with the idea of other people seeing them if I ever plan to sell any of my work. I imagine that they’ll ask about the symbolism of the pieces and I’ll have to get comfortable with such questions.”

Holden scrutinized the large canvas as he turned over Eileen’s words in his mind. He drew closer to the painting, inspecting the woman at the centre of it. Whatever was in her hands looked like it was wrapped in the blue and gold panels of the national flag. No matter what this painting was about, it was sure to be intriguing.  He pointed at it. “May I ask about the symbolism?”

She smiled. “In time.”

A horn beeped outside. Eileen pulled back the curtain. “It’s your taxi.”

As usual, when it came to Eileen, time was playing yet a cruel trick on Holden. “Thanks for the juice and for giving me a chance to explain.”

Eileen nodded and extended a hand to him. Grateful, he clasped it in return and kissed her cheek before he walked out the door and closed it behind him. His heart skittered as he thought about her on the other side of the door alone without him, possibly going to shower and wash the paint off her skin. The thought made him jog down the steps so he wouldn't be tempted to pay the taxi driver for his trouble and go back up the stairs to wile away the night with Eileen.

Holden glanced up at the apartment as he drove away, his mind roving over their discussion. Clifford talked ad nauseam about anything and everything, while Eileen seemed content to only disclose information when necessary. It might have been related to her being an orphan, but Holden sensed there was more to it.

Chapter 22

Whine and dine

It didn’t take long for Eileen to realize that her desperation to find the Cane Slasher had made her irrational. She yearned to find the culprit, to see them sweating as they were bolted inside a cell and left to rot, but she had to admit that having Paul arrested would be akin to being in a placebo group; she’d tell herself everything was okay while the problem persisted. Holden had made a good case for eliminating his brother as the perpetrator but without a suspect, all Eileen had were a handful of mystifying clues: four victims, the sighting of a fancy black car, and newspaper ads.

So Eileen did the only thing she could: she whined to Holden.

“You gave Derricks the ads ages ago,” Eileen groused the next morning as she yanked her hair in frustration. “Why haven’t the police arrested someone?”

Holden sighed. “You can’t just arrest people, Eileen. All they know is that someone is running ads for different jobs. It could be an employment