"It's a miracle I haven't been caught yet ..."

Sure, I was technically talking to myself. And yes, in some circles that might fall strictly under the someone get Kori Anderson a white jacket with pretty silver buckles and rubber room, stat category. But this thing was freaking huge — and no one had a clue I was the culprit. I was pretty damn proud.

I'd heard chatter around town, and even at school. It was thrilling to hear them talk. An even mix of opinions ranging from pure vandalism to unequivocal talent. Some nights I wondered what they'd do to me if my identity were discovered. An award or scholarship to a prestigious art school? A slap on the wrist or a short stint in the pokey to teach me a lesson? No matter what, it would have all been worth it.

The spray can fizzled and spit until nothing but air came out. "Damn." I set it down, resisting the urge to send it flying across the grass. Along with my thick chestnut-colored hair and dark brown eyes, I'd inherited a good portion of Mom's hair-trigger temper. Running out of midnight blue was going to cost me time I didn't have.

I'd started the mural less than five hours after my mother died. Dad was on a mission at the time, but I was there. I'd been right beside her when she slipped away. Funny how even when you can see something like death coming from miles away, it always seems to take you by surprise. A sucker punch to the tender parts that shreds your insides good and proper.

I sat there for hours, shocked despite the inevitability of it all, with my cheek pressed against hers, until her skin had cooled and my entire body went numb. The memory was still so clear, her last words, Promise me that you'll live your life in vivid color, still haunted my every move. Sometimes at night, when I lingered at the halfway point — not awake, yet not really asleep — I'd find myself transported back two years, to that hospital room. The sound of the machines filling the painful silence. The sharp scent of disinfectant and medicine, along with her unnatural stillness. I would never forget the look of her skin missing that subtle vibrancy that came with life.

When I finally found the strength to leave her behind and walk from the building, it was almost midnight. There were men from the army base waiting to take me home. Dad's subordinates were all nice, but I'd wanted to be alone. Needed it. I gave them the slip and wandered around the city for an hour, finally ending up on the edge of Clifton Park. That's when I found it. The wall.

I ran my fingers over the uneven brick. When I pulled them away, there was the smallest trace of blue on the tips. I'd gotten the night sky done, and most of the stars. They'd been the hardest. Partially because eight feet of the wall was night sky, and also because of the subtle shape I'd arranged them in. The only things left were the silhouette of a woman, a few finishing touches, and the words. Love from here to infinity.

It's what had been etched into my parents' wedding bands. What I would insist be etched into mine, should I ever find a guy willing to put up with my array of irritating habits and low tolerance temper. It's what mom said to me each night before I drifted to sleep ... Real love, she always said, knew no bounds. It wasn't hindered by space or time. It couldn't be weakened by death. Real love started in your heart and went straight through to infinity.

I set the empty spray-paint can down and grinned at my masterpiece. Pulling the clip from the edge of my shirt, I twisted my long hair and secured it atop my head. If all went well — and I managed to bring the right supplies — a few weeks and I'd be finished. I would have to be careful, though. Getting caught would be disastrous at this point.

Something crackled behind me. The kind of sound a shoe made as it stomped down on twigs, or leaves ... I whirled around, heart hammering, and saw ... nothing. It was just me, the trees, and the wall.

The wall ... It had become something of an urban legend in the area. I'd done so many over the years. Everything from jungle scenes loaded with exotic animals stalking their prey, to panoramic landscapes of treetops and epic mountain ranges. Whatever my mind deemed peaceful at the time. Each time we moved I'd pick an out-of-the-way spot, something dank and depressing, and work my magic. Turning garbage to gold, I liked to think of it. The previous ones hadn't been easy. Living on base made nighttime forays into the city impossible. I'd had to be crafty. Pick low traffic areas I could work on during the day when it wouldn't look suspicious leaving the base.

This last one was different, though. Much more personal than the others and, obviously, far more visible. I'd chosen the inside section of the wall around the park, about a hundred feet from the lake. Unlike the other ones, this needed to be seen. Proper tribute needed to be paid. But my choice in location had come with a price.

For months after I'd started, the police patrolled the park looking for the vandal — aka me. The whole thing pissed me off. Here I was adding a little culture and class to an otherwise dreary area and they wanted to punish me for it? Once I'd even had to start again. Seven months in, the mayor had city workers paint over my work to prove that vandalism wouldn't be tolerated. Because the grime-covered wall with its chipped bricks and scattered profanity were so much better than actual art? I'd been crushed at the time, but a few weeks of crying and a whole lot of peach frozen yogurt later, and I came back with a vengeance, determined to show the world my tribute to an amazing woman.

The wind kicked up, and I heard it again. Definitely not my imagination. And this time when I turned, I saw that I wasn't alone. "Oh my God!"

"Not quite," the guy said.

He was tall — probably just over six feet — with a long face and dark hair. He took a single step forward. The move brought him into the full beam of the park light, revealing brown eyes and a somewhat crooked nose. He'd broken it at one point, I guessed. But the injury gave his face depth. Personality. As an artist, I lived for the imperfections. The small details that made things unique. Perfection was boring. Give me complication and bumpy roads and I was a happy girl.

I glanced at the wall, then turned back to him. "I, uh ..." Yeah. What was I supposed to say here? I was standing in front of the wall, paint cans all over the ground at my feet, covered in blue. There wasn't any way to talk myself out of this.

He snickered, but said nothing.

"This isn't what it looks like?" I tried.

Still, nothing. All he did was stare — which was starting to freak me out a little.

"Are you okay?" He didn't look homeless, but maybe he'd been in an accident? "Do you need help?"

More staring.

"Oookay then," I said, taking a step back. "Well, if you speak English, do me a favor and don't rat me out."

He laughed again, and took a single step toward me. "You have bigger things to worry about." Then, without another word, he turned and started to walk away.

"I think that's it for tonight," I said to myself as he faded into the night.

I wiped both hands down the sides of my jeans. My uniform. Every color of the rainbow streaked the lovingly worn denim, making the jeans a piece of unique artwork themselves. I'd had them for years; they were stretched and frayed, and Mom...