excerpt from:
Living Image
A novel of suspense
Gladys S. Gallant
Living Image
Edith … I’m through with Mike … He gave me a rough time about the divorce, but I can’t take no for an answer. I guess I never could … Of course there’s another man … this honeymoon is going to take us to Paris. Look for us there at Christmas time …
Beautiful, self-assured, and demanding, Karen had always been one of those women who got exactly what she wanted. And her last letter to her sister Edith had not shown any sign of a sudden change in her personality … certainly not the despair of a woman about to take her own life. Yet Karen was dead. And the police in New York were convinced it was a simple case of suicide.
Edith had lived in her sister’s shadow all her life, and now the mystery surrounding Karen’s death threatened to haunt her forever. She had to know the truth. She had to leave her glamorous job in Paris and immerse herself in the life Karen had lived in New York. With a few small changes in her appearance, Edith could transform herself into the living image of her sister – and what better way to meet Karen’s friends and lovers … Karen’s reclusive millionaire husband … and perhaps Karen’s murderer as well.
She stared at the portrait, her eyes focused on the image before her as if some force was holding her there. An aura of flame hair framed the porcelain face. The soft white skin looked alive, alive enough to touch. Edith could feel the impenetrable green eyes staring at her, mocking her. An involuntary shudder went through her body. So this was Karen ten years later. The lovely, breathtaking face was the same. The same as she remembered. The beautiful body was the same. Rounded, firm, encased in the voluptuous folds of a gleaming yellow satin gown. It was Karen. What was different? Something about the face. The expression. The expression in the eyes was cruel, belying the softness of the painting. The artist had caught something of the soul. Something that should have been hidden from all mortal eyes. That was it, she thought, horrified. It was not the portrait of a beautiful woman. It was a portrait of destruction.
Gladys S. Gallant
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