A gallery painting bore my daughter’s face—until the truth behind it shattered everything I thought I knew

the exhibition. The artist is here somewhere.”

“Take me to her.”

“Tanya,” Tracy said softly. “Maybe slow down.”

“I can’t.”

Because somehow, my dead child was looking back at me from a gallery wall.

And I needed to understand why.

Andrea led us through a narrow hallway behind the main exhibit space.

“Did the artist copy this from a photograph?” I asked.

“I continue reading …