Darcy Coates

The dock protruded from the shore below the cabin, running twenty meters into the lake. Something large and misshapen sat at its end; Sam squinted in the poor light, trying to make out what it was, then her heart faltered as the shape moved.

It was a man, on his knees, bent over the edge of the dock. His broad shoulders trembled as he stared, fixated on the water below.

She made it halfway across the room before she stopped. She’d been so intent on looking for a stranger in her cabin that two very important changes had escaped her notice. Firstly, there were three mugs laid out on the kitchen bench, just in front of the window overlooking the shrubs behind the cabin. She hadn’t used any mugs the day before. The cups had been arranged with precision, too; their handles all pointed in the same direction—towards the easel.

There she found the second change, and it froze her breath in her lungs. Someone had painted on the canvas.

A man’s face stared at her from the cloth. It was a closely cropped portrait, realistic and barely dry. Deep-set grey eyes gazed out from above a crooked nose and thin lips. He had thick salt-and-pepper hair and uneven stubble. A red mark—a cut that had not quite healed—marred his cheek.

Sam sighed and glanced at her art book. Shock hit her like a cold slap. In the centre of the paper, surrounded by scribbled plants and indistinct shapes, was a drawing of the man.