Chapter 9 Mara
MARA
The morning after the break-in and the unhelpful visit from the police, I decide to start trying to take matters into my own hands. I start with the rose.
I sit at my coffee table with my laptop open and my phone beside me with my notes app open to a list of what reads like the digital version of frantic scribbles. I feel like I've barely slept. I need to get to the bottom of this, or I feel like I might never sleep again.
The first florist I call is a high-end shop in the West Village. A woman with a pleasant voice answers on the third ring.
"Hi, I'm calling about black roses," I say, trying to sound casual, like this is a normal request. "Do you carry them?"
There's a pause. "Black roses? No, I'm sorry, we don't. They don't actually exist naturally—any black roses you see are either very dark red roses or they've been dyed or spray-painted."
"Could you special order them? If someone wanted them dyed a specific way?"
"We could, but it's not something we typically do. Most clients prefer natural flowers. May I ask what this is for?"
"Just curious," I say, and hang up before she can ask more questions.
I call six more florists. The responses are variations on the same theme: black roses aren't real, they'd have to be specially treated, it's not a common request. One shop says they could do it but it would take at least a week and cost twice as much as a usual bouquet.
Another suggests I try a specialty flower shop in Brooklyn.
That one provides a small lead. The woman who answers tells me that they did have an order placed recently for a single black rose, a rush order. When I ask her to describe the man who bought it, though, she shuts down.
“Why are you asking?” Her voice sharpens, an edge to it as if I’m the one doing something wrong.
“I’m just curious. Someone left one for me, and I’m wondering—”
“I wasn’t here when the order was placed. One of my employees was.”
“Could you possibly have them call me—”
“I don’t want my employees being badgered over identifying orders. And we don’t give out customer information.”
“If I could just call back—”
The woman hangs up, and I know I’ve hit a dead end.
The next attempt is the earrings. I brought them and the bracelet home with me last night, thinking I might finally throw them away.
Now I spread them out on my coffee table, looking at them for a long time.
They’re beautiful, antique pieces, and the thought of not owning them feels almost painful, now that I do. I want to wear them, badly.
What if they really are just from a client, and I’m putting myself through all of this for nothing?
I photograph them from multiple angles and run reverse image searches, scroll through high-end jewelry websites, compare them to pieces from Tiffany, Cartier, Harry Winston.
Nothing matches exactly, but the style is similar to a collection I find on a boutique jeweler's website—a small shop in SoHo that specializes in estate pieces and vintage jewelry. I call them.
"I'm trying to identify a pair of earrings," I say when someone answers. "They're gold with small diamonds, very delicate. I think they might be from your shop?"
"We get a lot of estate pieces in," the man says. "If you could bring them in, I could take a look, tell you if they're ours."
"And if they are? Could you tell me who purchased them?"
A long pause. "I'm sorry, but we don't share client information. Privacy policy."
Of course. I knew that was going to be a dead end from the start—I would never share client information, either. I thank him and hang up.
I spend two hours going through the timeline of gifts, writing everything down in chronological order. The Thai food—how did they know my favorite order?—the book, the flowers that matched the painting, the bracelet, the earrings, the rose.
Each gift reveals something. Whoever this is has been watching me for a while. Long enough to know my routines, my preferences, my art. Long enough to have found a way into my apartment.
The thought makes my skin crawl.
I consider hiring a private investigator. I even google a few and read over their websites, looking at their rates. But they’re expensive, and while I technically could afford it, I stare at the last website for a long time and then close my laptop.
That feels like finally accepting that something very bad is happening. That this isn’t a client sending gifts, or me forgetting to close a window. I’m being stalked. The rose solidified it—I didn’t leave that there, and no one but me has a key to my apartment.
Maybe a private investigator could do something.
But what then? Do I move? That would take an even larger chunk out of my funds, especially since I’d have to pay a year’s rent to break the lease.
My savings would be decimated, and finding another apartment would make the financial implications even more dire.
What if the stalker followed me to the next place?
I could get a restraining order, but… against who?
Like the police said, there’s been no overt threat.
A private eye could give me information, but probably not any real, actionable help.
I stare at the black rose on my counter, where I moved it this morning so I wouldn't have to look at it while trying to sleep. "Who are you?" I whisper to it.
It doesn't answer.
—
The auction is that evening, and I almost cancel.
I'm in no state to be professional, to smile and make small talk with Manhattan's elite while my mind is elsewhere. But I need to prove to myself that I can still function, that whoever is doing this to me hasn't completely derailed my life.
So I shower, put on a sleek black evening dress and do my makeup with a light hand, and then… almost as an afterthought, before I can stop myself, put on the vintage earrings and bracelet.
They’re beautiful. They should be worn. And I tell myself that maybe if I wear them, if I normalize them, I can make myself believe that they were just a gift from a grateful client. I’ve received expensive gifts before after closing a sale or finding a rare piece. It could just be that.
It needs to just be that.
The auction house is in a converted warehouse, with exposed brick and high ceilings.
Champagne is flowing by the time I get there, appetizers circulating on small trays, and I snag a crisp with creme fraiche and caviar even though my appetite is nonexistent.
The room is buzzing with conversation and laughter, the sounds of people who have money and want everyone to know it.
I find my client, Richard Maxwell, near the front, holding a glass of champagne.
He’s old money with a young wife, and plenty of enthusiasm about art even though he has no real knowledge about it.
He’s joked before that that’s why he pays me, so he doesn’t need to know.
He doesn’t collect because he loves a particular artist, but because it's what people like him do, He likes the status of saying he owns a Basquiat or a Blanche, because his decorator told him his penthouse needed "statement pieces. "
"Mara!" He greets me too loudly, pulling me into a one-armed hug that I tolerate because he pays well. "You look stunning. Doesn't she look stunning, Katie?"
His wife—his third wife, twenty years younger than him and clearly bored—gives me a tight smile. "Lovely."
"I've been looking at the catalog," Richard says, pulling it from his jacket pocket. "That Kahlo in lot fifteen—what do you think?"
I take the catalog and flip to the page, grateful to have something concrete to focus on. "It's a good piece. The estimate is conservative—I'd expect it to go for at least thirty percent over."
"Should I bid on it?"
"That depends on your budget and what else catches your eye. There's also a beautiful Picasso in lot twenty-three that would work well in your space."
We spend the next twenty minutes reviewing the catalog, talking about which pieces are worth pursuing and which are overvalued. I can feel some of the tension leaving my shoulders. This is what I'm good at. This is where I can forget about mysterious gifts and the feeling of being watched.
The auction starts at seven. We find our seats—good ones, close to the front—and I settle in with my paddle, ready to bid on Richard's behalf.
The first few lots go smoothly. I bid on a small Warhol print and drop out when the price gets too high. We pass on a different painting that Richard likes but that I know is overpriced. The Kahlo comes up and I bid aggressively, but we're outbid, and I let it go.
Richard takes each loss with good humor, ordering more champagne between lots. By the time we get to the Picasso, he's on his fourth glass and his words are starting to slur slightly.
"Get it for me," he says, leaning close enough that I can smell the alcohol on his breath. "Whatever it takes."
I nod and raise my paddle when the bidding opens. The price climbs quickly—there's interest from multiple bidders. I stay in, watching the auctioneer, tracking the competition. When it hits the high estimate, two bidders drop out. When it goes twenty percent over, another drops out.
It's down to me and a woman in the back row.
I bid. She bids. I bid again.
Richard's hand presses against my lower back, warm through the thin fabric of my dress. "That's it," he murmurs. "Show her who's boss."
I shift slightly, trying to dislodge his hand without being obvious. It doesn't work. His palm presses more firmly against my spine.
The woman in the back bids again. I counter. The price is now forty percent over estimate, pushing the edge of what Richard authorized me to spend.
"Should I keep going?" I ask, turning to look at him.
His face is flushed, his eyes slightly unfocused. "Absolutely. I want it."
His hand slides lower, resting just above the curve of my ass.
I freeze for a moment, then deliberately lean forward, away from his touch, and raise my paddle again.