Twenty-One
Amelia
The Uber drops me down the street, and the red and blue strobes of emergency vehicles reflect through the night, bouncing off every wall and window.
My stomach bottoms out at the sight, a hollow ache filling me.
Hearing about the disaster is one thing; seeing it saps all my strength, leaving me with a mixture of existential dread and pure loss.
I get out, numb, oblivious to what the driver says to me. The acrid stench of burning fills the air.
Three fire trucks pour water into my gallery, dark black smoke disappearing up into the night. Flames flicker through the windows, bright orange but not numerous, and the building looks mostly unharmed, save for smashed windows.
It doesn’t matter. The water will have destroyed what the flames haven’t.
I’m sick to my stomach, moving as if in a daze. I have to find Sierra, see if she’s safe, and find out what happened.
There’s a cordon and a crowd to push through. A police officer stops me with a raised hand.
“No closer, ma’am.”
“I’m Amelia Anderson,” I say, my voice sounding distant in my ears. “That’s my gallery.”
My words cause a stir in the crowd. Someone snaps a picture with their phone, and I wince. The officer gives me a sympathetic look, then pulls the barrier back enough for me to enter.
Sierra is sitting in the back of an ambulance, a blanket around her, but she stands up as soon as she sees me. “Oh, Ammy!”
“Thank God you’re all right.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She flaps the corner of her blanket with disdain. “This is for shock, apparently.”
“I could use one of those right now,” I mutter.
I was only half serious, but Sierra wraps hers around my shoulders, and I’m grateful for it.
“What the hell happened?”
“I was in your office, doing the listings, and I… fell asleep,” Sierra says miserably. “Just for a few minutes,” she adds hastily, tears in her eyes. “The fire alarm woke me… there was smoke everywhere, and I saw flames.”
“You were in there?”
“I’m fine.” She waves away my concern. “A little coughy, but the EMTs checked me over and cleared me.” She grips her own arms with both hands. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank God you’re safe.” If she’d been hurt too… I can’t finish the thought.
“Ammy… I heard something, but… I was too busy trying to get out.”
I look at her sharply. “What kind of something?”
“I could’ve been mistaken,” she says hesitantly.
“What do you think you heard, Sierra?” It’s an effort to keep my voice calm.
She takes a breath and squares her shoulders. “The rear door slamming.”
“Jesus,” I breathe. “You think this was arson?”
“It wasn’t the store room and I was in the office. When I came out, it was the gallery itself on fire. The walls, the floors, the sculptures. How could that happen?”
“It couldn’t,” I say grimly. What the hell? Arson. Somebody broke into my gallery and set it on fire. Why? I’m a nobody; I’m irrelevant. I’m not even competition to most other galleries. I haven’t made any enemies… except Serranto. Who else could it be?
Fuck. Taking revenge for his finger.
Which means Van Wyk failed me… again.
It shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t come as a shock, either, but it does.
I tighten the blanket around myself, swallowing hard.
How could I let that man, that destructive abomination into my life?
Why didn’t I find my bullets and shoot him, or call the police?
God, last night, I thought we actually made some progress.
I must be the stupidest woman in the world to give in to him.
An EMT brings us cups of sweet tea and another blanket for Sierra. Together, we watch the fire trucks pour jets of water through the windows, destroying everything I’ve worked for. My inheritance, going up in smoke. My mother’s favorite picture. The last real tether I have to my parents.
My eyes prickle as I imagine the state of horror the gallery will be once the fire’s put out. Can anything survive this?
“Can I ask a question?” Sierra begins tentatively.
“Sure.” We haven’t got anything else to do.
“Did you… get the insurance done?”
I laugh, a bitter sound. “Yeah. Yesterday. It was a stipulation on Fournier’s paperwork.” And it was one-point-five million of art that wasn’t mine.
“Oh, thank God,” Sierra says on a breath.
I swallow hard. Maybe it wasn’t Serranto after all.
“Isn’t this all a bit suspicious?” I say.
“If it was arson, you mean?”
“Art that appears out of nowhere, just when I need it the most. Sixty percent commission, double the market rate, to encourage me not to think twice. An insurance requirement on the paperwork.” I clench my jaw. “Do you think we’ve been used?”
Sierra frowns. “I don’t know. But insurance is standard for an art loan, right?”
“…Yes…”
“And Bastien Fournier… his name was on everything. Do you know he’s a billionaire? I looked him up.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Do billionaires bother with insurance scams on seven-figure art?”
“I suppose not,” I concede, though it’s not like I know the man.
Yet put like that, it does seem unlikely. Maybe it wasn’t Van Wyk and Fournier setting me up. Maybe it was Serranto, after all.
God, I can’t get my thoughts straight. I feel like I’m hurtling through space at the speed of light while sitting in the back of an ambulance. I’m paranoid and untrusting. Is that any surprise when my gallery is on fire and Van Wyk keeps breaking into my apartment?
And where the hell was he tonight? Why wasn’t he there, when I got back home? Could Van Wyk have been the one to do this? Was he busy breaking into the gallery, setting fire to over a million bucks’ worth of art?
I can’t shake the feeling that it’s fully within his skill set. Maybe Fournier doesn’t need the money, but what about Van Wyk?
My life has gone to fucking pieces since that man entered it.
A group of men approaches us, two uniformed fire department officials leading the way, two police officers loitering behind.
“I’m Fire Marshal Barrett and this is Battalion Chief Graham,” the lead man says. He’s in his forties, tall with thinning hair and a grim expression. “Which of you is Amelia Anderson?”
“I am.”
“Ma’am, we have some questions. Are you able to answer at this time?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Barrett pulls out a notebook and a pencil, old school. “Can you tell me when you last left the premises?”
“Uh… about seven-thirty.”
He writes it down. “And did you lock up?”
“No. Sierra was still in there.”
“I was doing some paperwork,” Sierra adds.
He checks his notebook. “Sierra Collins? You called this in?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any idea what might have caused this?”
Sierra glances at me, and I give her a subtle nod. “I think I heard someone leaving just before the fire started.”
Barrett nods, his expression giving away nothing. “Miss Anderson, I’ll be straight with you. The burn pattern suggests this wasn’t accidental. We’re treating it as suspicious pending investigation.”
It’s no surprise, but the confirmation is another blow. Art galleries don’t burn by themselves. “I understand.”
“We’ll need you both to make a formal statement. In the meantime”—he hands me a card—“if you think of anything, anyone who might have reason to do this, you can reach me here.”
Should I mention Serranto now? It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down. It’s not just that I have no evidence. It’s the finger in the box, and what that might mean for Van Wyk.
And fuck… what that might mean for me. I’m implicated. I’m complicit in whatever crime he committed. Jesus Christ, I hadn’t really considered that before. I should’ve called the cops the second I saw it.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice cracking.
Barrett turns back to Sierra. “Ma’am, you’ve been cleared by the EMTs. There is no need for either of you to remain. You’re both free to go.”
The men give us a nod and walk away, leaving us alone.
“Gosh, it’s almost midnight,” Sierra says, looking at her phone.
“You should go home and get some rest.”
“Will you be all right?” she asks. “Is there someone you can stay with?”
He’s probably waiting for me back in my apartment. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
She gives me a sad look and then her second hug of the day, this one with far less excitement than the first. “I’m so sorry, Ammy.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “So am I.”
It’s past midnight when the Uber drops me back at my apartment block.
My clothing stinks of smoke. All I want is a shower and bed.
Part of me hopes he’s not there. Part of me hopes he is. I want goddamn answers. Whatever happened tonight, he’s connected one way or another.
I take the elevator up to my apartment, walking to my door with brisk steps, anticipating seeing him. I want to scream at him. And damn it, I want to cry on his shoulder. God, I don’t know what I want.
But what if he blames me for this? What if he’s not involved, and he’s angry that I’ve lost his friends’ artwork?
Maybe I don’t want to see him after all.
I just feel drained.
I reach my door, key in hand, and pause. There are noises coming from the other side. He is here, and he’s not being quiet about it either. It sounds like he’s rearranging the goddamn furniture.
Something smashes. Was that my TV?
I’m so not in the mood for this, not after the night I’ve had. Anger flares, replacing my weariness, and I open the door, stepping in.
“What the hell are you—”
The words die in my throat, a flash of cold chilling me to the bone. I freeze, horror replacing any turmoil.
It’s not Van Wyk.
Two other men are in my apartment, and they’re trashing it.
The sofa is turned over, the TV’s on the floor, the screen smashed.
The light’s dangling from the ceiling on its cable.
The room is lit from the bedroom, the door open, my mattress ripped with stuffing spilling out, and my clothes strewn all over the room.
Nausea rises, sharp and acidic. My breath shortens into shallow pants. The terrible claws of fear sink deep, rooting me in place, and my body trembles. There are men in my apartment. Destroying it. I know I should run, call the police, but I can’t breathe, let alone move.
Oh fuck, what if they’re here to kill me?
Run, Amelia. Run, run—