The Hawkins Blood
“It’s morbid.”
“People gotta get their thrills somewhere,” William muttered, peering into a drawer.
Alexandra stopped suddenly, nodding toward a nearby painting. I turned. It was a gloomy family portrait—father, mother, three kids. The artwork looked old, but there was something deeper—something wrong about it. The figures seemed to glare at us, hollow-eyed and mournful.
“Great example of American Primitive, don’t you think?” a woman’s voice broke the silence.
We turned as a young woman in a sleek black dress stepped down the spiral staircase. She was smiling politely, poised and confident.
Bab Populer