The Little House of Paints

Chapter 1

 'Another woman was found dead this morning, by a couple who were hiking in the woods. The woman's throat was slashed and all of her hair was once again....'

"Kendahl, I don't think that you want to hear about that kind of stuff when you are eating breakfast." My dad says from his spot in front of the stove when he finally catches my attention and turns off the kitchen radio.

Carrington Adams is just like every other over protective father. Usually dressed in a flannel, or the rare tee shirt, and a pair of jeans. We are a very casual family especially being that we are both artists, or former artists, and are constantly around paint. Since it is October, his skin is looking extra pale. This is especially emphasized by his bald head and bare face. He is indeed capable of growing hair in both areas, but chooses not to due to 'dirtiness' and the upkeep of it.

From the pictures of him back in his prime anyone would say that he was very handsome with deep chocolatey brown eyes that almost matched his hair color exactly. Though he wasn't the tallest, he still stood at five- eleven, which isn't anything to scoff at. However, just like everyone else time has worn on him. Not in a bad way, necessarily but his smile lines are more prominent, his eyebrows a little more gray, and his forehead wrinkles a little deeper. However, I do know for a fact that even though my father is pushing fifty, he is still considered attractive to the outsider. As his daughter, that idea creeps me the heck out.

"I just don't understand how the cops still haven't caught this guy. I mean he has been active for as long as I can remember and they still can't figure out who is doing it. The town isn't that big." I mumble back, before focusing back on the waffle sandwich in front of me that my dad has filled with eggs and bacon. It was a childhood favorite of mine that my dad makes every single time I come and visit.

"I'm sure they are doing the best that they can. Anyway, this conversation has reminded me that I have something I wanted to give to you before I leave. Hold on one second." He holds up one finger before leaving the room to go retrieve whatever it is he wants to give me before he goes on another one of his two week-long business trips. I tried to convince him to stay home with me, but he insisted on going. Something about having to get more materials for his handmade paint brushes. I don't know how he could possibly have the patience for such a task, but he must be doing something right since they usually are a hit.

My dad returns seconds later with two boxes, both equal in size. They aren't wrapped, only taped closed, one with black duct tape and the other with gray. He never wraps gifts, so this doesn't surprise me. He always says, 'Why buy some pretty paper to wrap the gifts, when all the paper being sold pales in comparison to the artwork that you can produce.' In reality, I think he honestly just doesn't know how to nicely wrap the boxes. That is why the tape has become so important. It helps him remember which is which. I slide my breakfast to the side and take the packages from him.

"Is there any order that I am supposed to open these up in or...?" I ask, while going to get a pair of scissors.

"You can open the one with the gray tape first and then the black one."

Of course, asking him that was stupid. For Christmas, or birthdays or really any gift giving occasion, gray is usually used for the smaller gifts, such as socks. While black is used for the more meaningful and expense gifts, such as new art supplies or electronics. He always makes me open the black taped gifts last to build up the suspense.

"Okay." I carefully take the scissors and begin cutting open the box. My dad also isn't one from tissue paper, though he never gave me a reason for that, so the gift immediately is noticeable at the bottom of the box. "Come on Dad, really?" I hold up the package of Mace spray.