His daughter convinced him to see this newly discovered painting from an anonymous artist; it had been found in the basement of a long abandoned home in the slums of New York. He didn’t have any interest in paintings but knew it was important to her; she had been the one in charge of restoring it.

“Dad, you’re going to love it! Just give it a chance”, Monica said this at her father’s exasperated sigh when he could see the crowd through foggy glass of the cab; Greg never enjoyed being around too many people, which was something he got used to after forty years in the New York City Police department. They pushed through the crowd and were let in ahead of the others since Monica was an employee; the staff had just finished setting up the exhibition of TW’s abstract paintings. The central one was kept under a black veil; it would just be a few hours before the whole world could see this painting for the first time ever.

“Wait here Dad, I have to finish up some things; don’t roll your eyes at me, I’ll be back long before the doors open… Just wait here”.

Monica disappeared through a maze of marble statues in the far hall. Greg’s eyes wandered the room; there were nearly thirty paintings, all signed “TW”. The abstract, Picasso-like illustrations were a bit unsettling. Everything in them was out of proportion and skewed, yet they were strangely beautiful; there was detail in everything. Hair was painted strand by strand, not box-like at all; eyes were full and, almost, real. The abstraction made Greg uncomfortable, but the realism was disturbing. As he looked over the black veil, his mind was filled with anxiousness; not to see what lied beneath, but to leave. “Dad!”, his daughter startled him, as he was intently focused on the dark centerpiece. A distinguished looking man was walking up by her side.

“Dad, I want you to meet my boss, Phillip Houston.”

“You must Gregory,” they both smiled and shook hands, “your daughter is one of my best; you know, she was my first choice to head the restoration of Caedes Vitta” Greg was smiling, full of pride, “Oh, I’m sorry… Ahh, it’s still covered now, but you will be able to see it shortly. Your daughter does fine work.” Someone had come up behind them and whispered something to Phillip. “Nice meeting you, if you’ll excuse me” Greg gave a smiling nod and Phillip quickly glanced at Monica before he vanished behind the marble maze.

A few hours passed while Monica went around and explained the history behind each of the paintings. They were all fairly recent works; if it had not been for their unique combination of old and new artistic techniques, they would be worthless. No one knew who the artist was. The paintings had been found across the country, one at a time for the past thirty years. The most recently found painting was actually the oldest, and likely the most significant. To Greg’s immense pleasure, the doors opened and Monica stopped talking. He loved her, as any father should, but he could hardly stand the continuation of her lecture on the proper technique for removing dirt off of delicate oil painting. Monica tried her best to have a good relationship with her father, mainly since she had never known her mother. Greg never really talked about her either; saying no more than it was a long time ago.

The aristocrats were let in first, though they had just arrived; slowly more and more people were let through, and then the doors closed; the first night of the exhibition was by invitation only. Greg stood by a marble column, close to the one painting everyone had been waiting to see for thirty years; Monica meandered amongst the guests, happily answering questions about that one painting, vaguely. Rarely this popular, she tried to absorb as much of it as she could.

Phillip had just stepped behind the podium and tapped his wine glass with a pen; the room was instantly quiet.

“I want to thank you all for coming tonight, and for you continued support. As you all know, TW has been gifting the art community with his paintings for decades; this night, we will unveil the earliest example of his extraordinary work ever found. We have worked hard restoring this painting to its original condition, after having been stored in such deplorable conditions for so long. I want to extend my congratulations to Ms. Monica Whitman for expertly heading the restoration project; and, I present to you,” Greg had half wanted to look away and half wanted to wait and see what was about to be uncovered; but he couldn’t pull his focus. It was as if the collective will of the entire room was forcing his gaze, “Caedes Vitta!”

Everyone let out a collective gasp and began discussing the piece immediately; Greg, however, couldn’t breath. The room grew dark, and he fell to the ground.

His head was filled with images, memories. A young couple in Central Park, fireworks, a beautiful bride with deep, expressive, green eyes. He was swept up in this cascade of thoughts and was taken to a place he desperately wanted to forget.

His partner was supposed to keep him away, restrain him, but Greg fought and pushed his way past into the dilapidated Victorian-style house. The walls were just a blur, now; the detail had faded from memory over the decades. There was crying, and screaming, it sounded as if it were coming from him, but he was looking down at himself, cut off from the world. His mind was fractured, and he couldn't focus.

There was only one clear image in his mind - a woman, draped in a blood-soaked ribbon, and a pair of deep, expressive, green eyes - glassy, lifeless.

He then found himself in the gallery, surrounded by TW's paintings. The eyes of the portraits pierced him, and he could hear them screaming in their tortured poses. A series of images flashed in his mind, and Greg knew why the paintings had made him feel uneasy when he saw them for the first time, and why they felt familiar. Women, brutalized, murdered, implements of pain and death - crime scene photos that had been circulating during his days on the police force. Now it was obvious to him: the paintings were only half of TW's legacy.

The black cloth covering Caedes Vitta swirled around him, it drew him back to the painting. The cloth enveloped his body as the painting's green eyes cried out to him, and there was only darkness for the longest time.

When Greg woke up, he was in a hospital bed, surrounded by cards and flowers. It was late in the afternoon, so he'd been unconscious for at least a day; the paper sitting on the empty chair next to the bed had "January" written in the header. Two weeks? Or more? There was a dull pain in his chest and he struggled to sort out his thoughts through the incessant beeping of the heart-rate monitor.

Looking around the room at the gifts and cards, he saw something unusual. As the sun was setting in the west, a thin band of light cut through the darkness and fell like a ribbon upon the bottom of a painting. With the sun falling low and lower, the band of light raised higher. Slowly it was revealed to Greg a strip at a time.

The beeping got faster. Then there was only a steady tone. Then silence.

Monica had her mother's eyes.

When Greg passed out, he had a flash back - first to him and his wife's early relationship, then their marriage, then to his days on the NY police force. He and his partner were called to a crime scene, where Greg discovered his green-eyed wife murdered (this was shortly after his daughter was born). It is revealed in the flash back that Caedes Vitta is a portrait of Greg's murdered wife, painted by the killer (and implied that the sight of the painting caused Greg to have a heart attack and pass out in the gallery).

In the flashback, Greg then remembers all the crime scene photographs of the murdered women he's seen while a police officer, and realizes that they are the same as the women in the paintings. TW (the painter/killer) is a serial murderer who targets women. He brutally kills them, then paints portraits of their dead bodies - all the paintings in that gallery are of TWs victims.

Greg wakes up in the hospital, some weeks after he passed out, and sees a new painting, by TW, that is a portrait of his daughter (she has her mother's green eyes). The shock at the realization that his daughter has been killed pushes him over the edge, and his heart gives out.