A/N: Hey all. So, I know I said it would only be a few weeks before I got this published. Apparently I meant a few months. I am so sorry for the wait. I sincerely hope it was worth it. As I have mentioned before, this story is a bit darker than anything I've ever written. Most chapters will be pretty mild, but overall, I'm hoping I have a nice mix of noir and fluffiness. So we shall see. Also, a huge thank you to my betas. Without them, this wouldn't be on your screens today. Nor would you want to read it.

Warning for manufactured violent scenes, alcohol use and hallucinations.

Enjoy!

Chapter One

The photograph caught his eye five years ago at an art show. Upon first glance, it appeared to be a simple landscape of a lake surrounded by lush, vibrant foliage. The sky was a bright blue, serving as a nice contrast to the fresh green leaves of the trees brought on by spring. A waterfall, the source of the lake, was the backdrop to the scene, providing a light mist and refracting the sun's rays. It made the whole picture look magical.

Following the natural motion of the picture, one's eye was drawn to the bottom left corner revealing a speck of white color. It almost looked like the crash of a rapid against a rock poking through the surface of the clear lake. That would not be the case. It wasn't a rapid. It was the body of a young blonde in a white dress, partially covered with rocks, pinning her to the bottom of the lake.

While normal people would be disgusted upon such a revelation about such an otherwise beautiful photograph, he was drawn to it. He moved along the wall, taking in the others from the collection. They were all photos of beautiful landscapes with murdered young girls hidden in plain sight.

A redhead in a long red dress, lying in a field of poppies. Her skull bashed in, green eyes still open, blank. The blood covered her forehead, making it hard to spot her amongst the flowers, but once she was, she was all that could be seen.

A brunette hanging by a rope in a winter forest. With only a cursory glance, her body resembled a tree. Then, looking closer, the viewer could almost see her swaying back and forth in the cold, winter wind. Her head fell to the side, neck snapped. The only contrast to the awful scene was a bright red cardinal, sitting on a tree in the foreground.

That night, he ended up purchasing the first picture on a whim. Earlier that day he had gotten the first check from his first published novel. It seemed fitting, considering the novel was about a young blonde who had single-handedly solved the brutal murder of her best friend. Granted, the friend wasn't drowned in the bottom of a lake, but this photo spoke to him more than the others.

He hung it on the wall in his den above the couch. He smiled politely when guests commented how the greens of the leaves brightened the room, never noticing the girl at the bottom of the lake.

"What do you think, Britt?" he asked his girlfriend as he stepped back from the frame, admiring it on the wall.

She folded her arms, swirling the wine in her glass, "It's disturbed. Seriously, why did you buy that?"

He shrugged and poured himself a drink, "I don't know. I like it."

"You're disturbed," she added, taking a sip from her own drink, "Maybe you can hang a curtain in front of it. You can't seriously want people to stare at that when they come over."

"I guarantee that most people won't notice, and those that do won't say anything. That's the point," he chuckled, putting his arm around her waist as they both stared at it.

She moved from his embrace, taking a step back, looking away from him, away from the picture. Brittney clenched and unclenched her hands at her sides, taking a deep breath, and then another. With a slight shake of her head, she appeared to be trying to convince herself of something. Finally, she opened her mouth, attempting to remain calm, but the irritation in her voice betrayed her, "I think we should see other people."

His grip on his glass increased at her sudden confession, "Because of the photo? Really? Britt, come on." Was she really going to throw their relationship down the drain over this? He had put up with far worse from her.

"Yes!" she paused and thought for a moment, "Well, it certainly is part of it. It's gruesome. How can you tolerate sitting in here and staring at it," she demanded, putting her glass down on the table. "It is a dead girl lying at the bottom of a lake."

He threw his hands in the air, "A dead girl that you didn't notice until I pointed her out to you."

"And now that I see her, I'm not comfortable with this hanging here," she shot back and moved towards the door. "Honestly, I can't believe you're choosing the picture over me. I hope that you will be very satisfied with your decision." She walked out of the den and a few seconds later he heard the front door slam.

He shook his head, sighing. It wasn't even real. She was some model paid to lay at the bottom of a lake in a white dress so, he paused mid thought to look at the artist's name, Venus Noir, could take the picture.

Now he found himself staring at the girl again. His deadline was approaching; the blank document on the computer mocked him and the dead girl called out to him. With a sigh, he stood and refilled his glass with the best scotch from the sidebar. It was going to be a long night.

Two glasses of scotch later, the effects of the alcohol finally started to kick in and he brought his fingers to the keyboard, looking again to the girl in the photo.

"What happened to me?" she asked. He blinked, forgetting that he had taken something earlier that evening to relax him.

"You're not real," he insisted, getting up to refill his glass again.

The girl was now in his den, dripping lake water on his carpet, "I wouldn't do that if I were you," she said.

He shrugged and filled his glass anyway. "Well, I guess it's a good thing that you're not me then," he responded and returned to his chair.

"How did I die?" she asked him again.

He ran a hand through his hair as he set down his glass and looked her up and down, "Did you drown?"

"You might think so," she chuckled, waving her soaked arms around for emphasis, "but where's the fun in that?"

Letting the few remaining fibers of his sanity go, he continued to converse with the girl from the photo, "Were you murdered?" he asked.

"That sounds interesting," she said, continuing to look around the room, "How was I murdered? I haven't got a scratch on me." With a flair for the theatrics, she made a show of checking herself for injury and found nothing.

He took a seat on the couch, feeling a little light headed, "Strangled?" he asked. She shook her head. "Drowned?" he took another stab at the more obvious answer. Again, she slowly turned her head side to side. "Poison?" he threw out and her expression changed.

Hours passed as he chatted with the girl. He learned her name was Katarina. She was twenty years old when she entered the lake. In life, she was never a blonde, always a brunette. The hair dye was just a failed attempt by her murderer to conceal her identity.

He took in her clothing, and although he couldn't consider himself an expert in women's fashion, he could determine that her simple white dress was by no means modern. He noticed that she wasn't wearing shoes and that her toenails were painted with a pale blue, the same blue as the ribbon tied in her hair. That detail he had never noticed while she was in the photo.

"So… who killed me," she asked, eagerly, inching closer to him on the couch.

"Your brother?" he threw out, getting used to this guessing game.

"Why would he kill me? That doesn't make sense," she said, shaking her head wildly, "No, no, that won't do at all."

"Your boyfriend," he tried again.

"I don't have a boyfriend," she explained, smoothing her dress with her hands.

"Your girlfriend then," he stood and walked over, emptying the bottle of scotch into his glass.

Katarina followed him, "I think you've had enough."

"I'll stop drinking when you tell me who killed you," he declared before taking a large mouthful of the strong liquid.

He watched the panicked look spread across her face before she opened her mouth, "It was my father." She looked at his glass with pleading eyes. With a sigh, he chugged the remaining liquid before setting the glass down on the table. Or what he thought was the table. The crash that echoed throughout the room suggested otherwise.

The alcohol slowed his reaction time, he knew. As he turned around to face the sound, he felt a sharp pain shoot through his foot. Katarina pushed him down into the couch before grabbing another bottle of alcohol and a towel from the sidebar. She knelt in front of him, carefully removing the shard of glass from his foot before pouring the alcohol over it to kill any germs and wrapping it in the towel to stop the bleeding.

She turned him on his side as he fell over, in case he got sick during the night. This was the last thing he remembered before he passed out and she returned to the photo. Regretfully, he never asked her why her father had killed her but it was too late as sleep overtook him.

In the morning, as birds chirped outside the window, the sun cast lazy rays into the room, stirring him awake. Blinking, he looked towards the window and frowned. That was not helping his current hung-over state.

If the sun and the birds weren't enough, his dog, Dick, strolled into the room with a goofy grin and planted himself at his feet. Dick was aptly named after an old friend of his. Like Dick the human, Dick the dog had shaggy blonde hair, enjoyed spending time on the beach, wasn't the brightest bulb in the box, loyal to a fault and most importantly, didn't judge his drinking habits. He sat up and ran a hand over the thick fur on the dog's head, giving him the attention he desired. "Morning, Dick," he greeted warmly.

His attention was quickly torn away from the dog as his phone began to sing the most annoying tune known to man. In a quick effort to make it stop, he fished it from his pocket and answered the call without looking, "Hello?" he questioned, his voice raspy.

"Those chapters you e-mailed last night were amazing. Your best work yet. I've already sent them off to the editor. Keep this up and we're going to have another best-seller on our hands, maybe even a movie deal…" he recognized the voice of his manager and held the phone away from his ear. It was too early to be dealing with someone so chipper.

When what she'd said sunk in, Logan shot up. Chapters? What chapters? "What are you talking about?" he asked finally, looking around for a glass of water or an aspirin or something to help his head.

"You e-mailed me at like three a.m. Granted it was after your deadline, but they're worth it. The girl in the white dress, the lake, Katarina, you've really done it this time," his manager continued to explain the story.

Having heard enough, he ended the call and dropped his phone onto the floor, trying to piece together the events of last night. The girl had come out of the picture. Or had she? He had talked to her. Or maybe he was just writing?

He looked to his foot; still carefully wrapped in the towel. Could he have done that himself in his drunken state? Probably not. Had someone else been there? Katarina? He needed to talk to her again to find out the rest of her story.

What was the saying? Hair of the dog? Taking one last glance to be sure there wasn't a waiting glass of water, he reached over to the sidebar and pulled out one of the bottles.

A/N: So, I'm hoping to be able to update every week, but encouragement does come in the form of your lovely words. So if you loved, hated, or somewhere in between(ed?) it, feel free to click the little button and share your thoughts. Feel free to pass around the marshmallows. Thanks!