CHAPTER 12
Nash
Halfway to work, my phone vibrated in my pocket.
I smirked, knowing—hoping in my gut—that it was the neighbor. I pulled the phone out of my wool pants.
The weather was cooler today than it had been. I’d switched to a heavier wool suit, but rolled the sleeves to keep it casual—and never a tie. I was not much of a tie man unless it was for an auction event.
Looking at the screen, I didn’t recognize the number, but I recognized the black and white dog in the photo. Bill was licking a metal bowl on a worn wooden floor in what looked like a very vintage New York kitchen.
Many of the townhomes on our block were Gatsby era of New York. They had beautifully preserved details and amazing glasswork. From the small bits I could gather from the photo, I could tell hers was one of them.
Her bare feet, toes painted black, were peeking up from the bottom of the image. They were adorable. Every detail about her was like a drop of water in the desert, and I was thirsty for it.
Over the past few weeks, I’d wanted nothing more than to see her face again. I begged my mind to hold fast to every detail allowed in our brief meetings, but I still felt them hopelessly slipping away.
It was as though the universe had sensed that by Wednesday of this week. Bee ceremoniously entered my office and dropped a file of images on my desk with a slap and a smirk.
She’d used her somewhat shady contacts to help gather all the information for PERL’s socials and news coverage, compiling a folder of repeat attendees and faces. Bee had found at least twenty constants, and my mysterious neighbor was one of them.
I soaked in each image, studying her every minor detail, cataloging every expression on her face. She always tucked herself back in the room, most images often grainy or cut off. It soothed my curiosity about her, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy it.
I needed to see her again, and in person.
Bee and I worked tirelessly to match faces to names, but hers remained a mystery. I hadn’t been able to locate a social media account. Being as shy as she was, it made sense that maybe she didn’t have one, but it was a red flag in our PERL hunt.
From what I could tell, she’d never missed an event, at least not as far back as media coverage provided. She didn’t particularly seem too happy to be there, or even happy to be around people at all, so why go? What was her drive?
Last night I’d stood in my gallery with Blue, sipping a bourbon. Studying it for what felt the hundredth time, I couldn’t help but wonder if my coy little neighbor could be PERL. She wasn’t the person I’d envisioned being the artist, but it was possible the piece fit.
Maybe I’d figured wrong. Maybe the person we were looking for wasn’t a bold and eccentric individual or group, but a shy shut-in avoiding attention. Introverts could be more creative than most. I hadn’t given them the credit owed.
But this girl, I couldn’t see how she’d manage it. There had to be a larger network helping her. If so, could I uncover it, and did I want to? My goal was never to expose the identity of the artist; I just wanted to know for my own sake—it was a game to me.
My business was buying and selling art, so exposing the identity of PERL only stood to harm my position, not improve it. If I exposed this person, it’d kill the entire brand and the magic. And if PERL were this woman, the last thing I wanted was to destroy her life, not even a little.
I wanted to do the exact opposite.
Her involvement needed to be discovered, but I had to play this right.
I couldn’t scare her off. Having already stolen the art, I’d put myself in a precarious situation of having to lie about my intentions.
Of course, I wanted to know her for who she was, but I risked her reaction if she ever found out what I’d done.
Another problem was figuring out what tormented her. It was obvious something held her back, scared her, and made her nervous. What had caused that and why?
My mother suffered for years with anxiety and depression. I recognized it on this woman’s face, too. We all knew what that struggle looked like, and the silent battle warring inside her head was too familiar to dismiss.
Our mother struggled with debilitating anxiety, plagued by frightening, unwanted thoughts. It was relentless, and though there were months of near normality, even years, it always resurfaced.
I’m not sure she ever pulled out of it. Our mother rarely left the house unless it was for a doctor’s appointment or something similar, and my father always took the time off, no matter how busy he was, to go with her. She couldn’t bear being alone, but also couldn’t bear people.
I can’t remember a single time our mother took us to the park, events, school, and so on.
We always ordered meals in or cooked, ordered movies from home.
If there was somewhere Bee and I wanted to go, our father or a nanny would take us, and our mother would be there when we got back with snacks, ready to hear about our adventures.
She showered us with love as though we were her entire world, and was content like that.
It was safe, and she could be herself, and that’s all she ever wanted.
My father loved my mother deeply, fawned over her in a way that made me want that for myself. He was happy to help her with her limitations, gracious to be allowed to be her support and her companion. He adored and cherished her and respected her boundaries without question.
She was our ballerina in a snow globe—that’s what I imagined. A beautiful, whimsical being, tucked away and kept safe. Yet it couldn’t save her from everything. Cancer found her regardless of her glittering dome.
I’d just finished college when she died. Her battle with stage four breast cancer was swift. It was a relief that her suffering wasn’t prolonged. I recall her saying she had no regrets, that her life was perfect, exactly as it was.
It was such a curious concept to me. She’d somehow gotten everything she wanted and felt fulfilled, even in her limited world. She was happy and at peace, and that’s all she wanted above all else.
That’s what I was after with my life—that sense of understanding and contentment. I longed to know the feeling of such profound love, to find my ideal world and experience every second within it. I feared I’d never find it. But perhaps it could still find me.
Reaching the Beaumont Antiquities building, I paused and typed a reply before going through the doors. I’d let the text linger unanswered long enough.
Me: Glad to see Bill is enjoying his treats, but despite the bribes, he still isn’t giving up your name. I don’t know what to put you in my contacts as?
I stood there for what felt like an eternity; the street sounds fading to nothing but the sound of my bated breath. People hurried by, yet I stayed rooted. I was mentally willing her reply.
Three dots appeared; she was typing. My smile was instantaneous.
Her: My name is Sybil.
My smile grew impossibly bigger. “Sybil,” I whispered, wanting to feel it on my lips.
“What’s got you smiling, big brother?” Bee’s voice cut through the cloud I’d found myself in, and my head snapped up. Bee placed her hand on my arm, handing me a coffee and leaning in to eavesdrop on my messages. “I got you an Americano.”
I didn’t bother hiding my screen from her as I took the hot cup.
She sucked in a breath. “Is that her?” She nearly screamed it, her hands gripping my arm. “Please tell me it is!”
I chuckled, still coming to terms with knowing Sybil’s name at last. “It is.”
Bee began jumping excitedly, the passersby giving us angry looks as she jostled a few. “Oh my gosh, Nash, you so love her. The smile on your face was priceless. I saw it from a few feet away, and I just knew. I said to myself, now that is a gentleman in love.”
I was shaking my head, not willing to reply and egg her on.
“Do you really think she could be PERL?” she went on.
I’d shared my suspicions with her, trying to see what she thought of the idea. “I honestly don’t know,” I replied.
“Oh my gosh, this is so exciting! I mean, what if she is, and here you are, her adoring thief? I mean, that’s just fucking beautiful!”
“Geez, Bee.” I tried to calm her with a hand on her shoulder. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. There are nineteen other prospects equally qualified to be PERL,” I assured.
“Well, you know, bro, there’s an easy way to figure it out.”
I looked at her, urging her to share this idea with my gaze.
“Just get her to comment on something with color, see if she can see it. If she stumbles, then you’ll know.” She shrugged as though it were that simple.
“You have a point.” I plumped my bottom lip and nodded in agreement.
“Well yeah! I was planning to do this with the other suspects on the list. I’m going to track down each and ambush them with a random color question. Any stumble would make it obvious.”
I could see how she’d go about this, and it wasn’t pretty.
Bee ambushing people on the street wasn’t likely to go over well.
There were enough random weirdos approaching on the streets of New York without one of them being my sister.
Most would stumble at a stranger assailing them like that. Her plan could use finesse.
“It’s a good idea if it weren’t you doing it,” I teased.
She gave me a playful smack on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go.” She took my arm in hers, leading us into the building. Reaching the elevator, my pocket vibrated again. I pulled my phone out. Bee let go of me, moving to the button panel.
Sybil: Vanilla latte.
I smiled again.
“Oh gawd, Boy,” Bee scoffed.
I glanced up, seeing she’d caught me grinning again. I didn’t reward her with a reaction.
“You are so far gone,” she added.
I tapped out a quick reply.
Me: Solid choice. ??