The Face Behind the Canvas

After failing the portfolio review for my dream art college, I had to drag myself back to the prep studio for another season of intensive training.

But the moment I walked into the painting room, I froze. Someone was driving a knife straight into Mr. Evans’s chest.

I clamped my hand over my mouth, bolted out of the building, and called 911.

Yet, when I returned with the police officers, Mr. Evans was sitting calmly by the window, sipping hot tea.

He set his cup down, looking at us with utter confusion.

"Is something wrong, officers? Why are you here?"