The last Adele remembered, all she had given Mary were cartons of crayons, drawing pencils, and paper to sketch her visions. Certainly not paint. And definitely not the kind that now covered nearly eighty percent of her walls.
But it wasn't the shock of how Mary had turned her room into an art gallery that rooted Adele to the spot. It was what had been painted. Because someone would pay obscene amounts of money to witness this.
The paintings were thick and vivid, a chaotic, haunting plaster of color pressed directly into the walls. Layers upon layers—reds bleeding into blues, blacks clawing through gold. The strokes were frantic and deliberate all at once, as though the walls themselves had been forced to absorb the visions rather than merely display them. It sent chills down the spine.
For over a minute, neither Adele nor Micah could look away.
