A collage of richly patterned and paint splattered rugs covered the studio’s floor. Canvases idled against the walls. In pencil, charcoal, pastels, studies of dissected orchids were taped to a large pegboard leaning against a covered easel.

It was Cliff’s idea for me to do this puff piece. Lady artists puttering around with watercolors did nothing for me. Cliff promised me the South by Southwest festival assignment if I played nice. Apparently Everly Greenwood was getting popular with the ladies who lunch and buy art. All I could see was just another middle-aged mom imagining she was an artist.

“Thank you again. I can’t tell you how appreciative I am you allowed me to tour your studio,” I said.

Everly glanced at me over her shoulder and then turned her attention back to her drafting table. Was this old broad ignoring me? Now I was pissed. At least she could be grateful that the Sun wanted to do an article on her stupid paintings. Feigning interest, I approached her desk.

With burnt willow, Everly was sketching the beginnings of a portrait. Her fingers were blackened from the charcoal. I noticed she had pretty hands, delicate like birds. I was lost in her quick, sure motions. Leaning over evading her space I caught her scent on her hair. Her perfume was fresh cut roses with something darker as an undertone.

I inhaled again, watching how her loose v neck tee slipped down one shoulder. She worn a tight red scarf around her lovely throat. I remembered from her gallery opening press kit Everly Greenwood always worn a narrow red scarf. Suddenly something about this woman intrigued me. I leaned closer pretending to study the portrait. My front brushed her back accidentally on purpose. Everly bristled. I smiled.

“Tell me how you made the transition to full time artist from academia, Ms. Greenwood. You studied art history, am I right,” I said, bending closer to her ear.

Her portrait was of a woman with fear in her eyes. Quickly, Everly slid from her stool and headed towards her easel. Her retreat made me want to follow. She was a little past prime but still attractive.

“No you are not right. I studied folklore, teaching the literary analysis of fairytales. My paintings are an extension of my previous work.”

Everly spoke in a clipped dry tone like a stern teacher or librarian. I like sexy librarians.

“That’s fascinating, really. You mean Cinderella and Belle, those stories,” I said walking closer with each word.

“I mean this,” she said.

Everly whipped the drop cloth from her easel. The face was the similar to the one she’d drawn before had drawn before. It was man, a little like me, with a look of sheer terror. He was clawing at a red scarf digging into the flesh of his throat. I touched my own neck.

“I know this story. The Green Ribbon, I read it as a kid. Something about a girl was a secret. The ribbon holds her head on. She always wears it like you. Is that your secret?” I joked.

As I turned hard outstretched to touch the thin blood red silk on her neck I froze. Everly had undid the scarf’s knot. Her scarf opened to reveal a second mouth filled with teeth.

“No Mr. Walters. This is my secret.”