Chapter 9

Jacob sat with his hands clenched together in a corner of the giant sitting room. Different artworks probably from the eighteenth century hung on the wall: angry looking paintings and heavily bearded sculptors of philosophers. 

But of all the paintings and sculptors there was one that he couldn’t get his eyes off. It hung slightly with the height of roughly three feet. The painted man had a fierce look not so different from the rest of them in the room except this one isn’t from the eighteenth century. He looked different, except for the windpipe he held to his mouth. 

And the face, it looked like… 

“That’s my father,” Christine said. 

Jacob turned, she was standing by the door frame, “Oh…um I didn&rsq