The Price of Stolen Genius

able distance grew between us. Nicole would set up her easel on one side

t for a day, then paint over it in a fit of pique. Her canvases were a graveyard of half-formed, generic ideas:

our teache

ing at her latest attempt. "But it lacks the spark I've see

as she gripped her paintbrush. "I

s working on a series of charcoal studies based on my death.

excitement, "This is powerful, Caleb. It's unsettling, but

toxic mix of envy and disbelief. She couldn't understand it.

ounting. One evening, I overheard

Anderson's voice was sharp, cutting. "Your last report from M

king on

Rhode Island School of Design. It's what we've planned. If you fail, you can forget about a

she said, he

said, his voice dropping to a low

truly possessed, didn't see the danger. Sh

ice regaining its usual arrogan

myth. And that was go