No shit.
“It doesn’t have a price.”
“Five hundred.” He sticks his hands in his pockets, and I don’t like how he’s looking at it with me, his shoulder a foot away from mine.
I find the initials of the artist in the lower right-hand corner. D.M. The artist should know better. Five hundred dollars is too cheap for this work. Nothing in my galleries costs less than a million, but this is special.
“We’ll arrange a private showing.”
The man’s eyes go up, wrinkling his forehead toward the beret. “Oh, I’m not sure. The artist, she—” Mistake. “We don’t normally offer private showings.”
No doubt he doesn’t. This is a low-end gallery.
“Make an exception.” I take my gloves off and fold them into the pocket of my overcoat, following the lines of the brush strokes in the painting. They descend into a roiling darkness that manages to retain its movement even without much suggestion of light. The hairs on the backs of my arms stand up. “Nora likes these kinds of places. She would do a showing here if I mentioned it to her.”
He’s breathing conspicuously, but I don’t look at him. Give the man relative privacy while he realizes who’s standing in his gallery. “Which Nora would you be—someone up-and-coming out of Manhattan, or—”
I laugh. “It’s not her real name. You must know that by now.”
He rubs a hand over his mouth. “Yeah. I do. Everyone knows that.”
Everyone knows that Nora is the pseudonym for one of the most popular street artists of the last five years. Famously secretive. Her pieces appear overnight, bursting off walls and billboards and, lately, canvas. It is nearly impossible to schedule a showing with her.
For other people. It’s not impossible for me. I’ve made investments in a few of her pieces because the value will continue to rise.
I meet the man’s eyes and find him staring. Frank. Bordering on rude.
“You know her, then.” He nods, attempting to keep it casual, but he fails. He’s too tense. Overexcited now. He keeps the heat low in this building, which is lucky for him, since he’d be sweating otherwise. A touch to his beret. “And that makes you—you’re the Collector. I’m sorry. I should have recognized you. I’m Robert. Owner of the gallery.”
“No need for an apology.” I’m not often photographed, at showings or otherwise. I’ve given my release for photographs twice in all my years acquiring art. There’s very little for him to go on. I take a business card out of my pocket and press it into his hand. “You’ll arrange the showing. And I’ll take this painting.”
This, at least, is firm ground for him. At the desk I take a sheet from a notepad and write a message. Fold it twice. “For the artist.”
“I’ll pass it on.” Robert runs my credit card at the machine in his desk, then makes a show of glancing at the business card. “I should contact you at this number?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want the painting wrapped?” I give him a look, calibrated to tell this fool in his beret that he needs to keep up without withering him where he stands. “I’ll have it delivered.”
I shake his hand over the counter. “Nora will hear about your gallery. I’m sure she’ll be very excited.”
“We’d be honored.” He’ll be out of his league, is what he’ll be. But that doesn’t matter. I want this painting, and I want this showing, and I’ll get them both.
Leaving the gallery is more difficult than I would have expected. The painting exerts a pull, the way the woman did, and I have the breathless sense that if I waited, I would find her at that painting.
Foolish. Allowing myself to feel for this long—it’s foolish. Reckless. I don’t want these emotions close enough to name, but there they are.
One of them is hope. It’s a bright spot in a dark space, surrounded by heat and violence and memory. Emotions are best kept pinned down. Held at arm’s length.
But this painting—
This woman—
On the sidewalk I feel the pinprick awareness that someone has taken notice.
Curiosity turns my head. I half-expect to see her standing there in her gray coat, exposed to the fast-approaching night. But the sidewalk is empty, except for an empty newspaper vending machine and a streetlight. A stray piece of paper blows past in the breeze and slaps the gallery window like it’s trying to get inside. Again, that pull—go back to the painting. Don’t leave it behind.
Another tug.
This time, to the second floor.
We’ve lost more of the sun since I went in. A weaker glow from those narrow windows pushes into the evening. The competing light from outside makes it possible to see a set of lace curtains. Still. Serene. Undisturbed.
The curtains, and the shadow of a woman behind them.
Chapter Two
Daphne
We get a few visitors to the gallery every day, but most of them don’t buy anything. People stop by to see Robert, the owner, and in the winter they stop in to warm up from the cold. Sales could be better. That’s what Robert always says. He’s trying a new technique lately—giving people plenty of space to get attached to the art.
This visitor has to be a good sign. It’s close to closing, but he was here long enough to buy something.
When the door closes I go to my window to peek through the lace. He’s walking away. Long strides. A dark coat. That’s all I get.
And then, as if he senses me watching, he turns his head.
I freeze behind the curtain and avert my eyes. I don’t know what I’m thinking, trying to catch a glimpse.
Three ringing bangs startle me back into motion. It’s Robert, banging on the ceiling of the gallery—my floor—with a stick, like he does when he wants to go on a lunch break. One more look at the sidewalk. Nobody’s there now, only a couple with their arms linked. On the way to dinner, maybe. Across the street is a building almost identical to this one. Both of them were built at the same time. The difference is that the bottom floor of that building is a tiny grocery store.
The top floor is an apartment. That’s where my security team stays. My brother Leo wants them closer, but there’s no room. His “compromise” was to buy the building across the way and keep the space open for the people on the team. Dark windows watch me back. I like it better when the lights are off. I can pretend I’m on my own.
There’s one way out of my apartment. My door opens on a strangely wide hallway. The downside is that my apartment could be bigger if it weren’t for the hall, but the upside is that I can move bigger canvases in and out when I need to. A dusty landing at the bottom of the stairs leaves me between two doors. One leads out to the alley. The other leads into the back room of the gallery.
“You rang?” I call to Robert, stepping through. “Or—pounded, I guess.”
“He bought your painting.” Keys jangle at the front door. He’s locking up. I push aside the beaded curtain separating the crowded back room from the gallery.
“What?”
“Yeah.” Robert turns around, blinking. He rubs a hand over his beret. “He wants it shipped. Paid extra for that.”