Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Seymour
I don’t sleep well that night after the event.
The gentle lapping of water against the dock usually lulls me to sleep, but tonight every small splash jolts me awake.
The sheets tangle around my legs as I toss and turn, my mind replaying Eugene’s collapse in vivid detail.
The moonlight filtering through the windows casts shadows that dance across the ceiling, matching the restless thoughts tumbling through my head.
Barrie told me she would find Mandy and check on her. I wanted to say no, I will, but with one of us already leaving, it wouldn’t look good if we both left the gallery.
Not after a death.
Another death.
The weight of those words settles heavy in my chest. If it is an accidental death. Because maybe it’s not. The thought makes my jaw clench, muscles tightening with tension I can’t release.
What are the chances? The question haunts me as I stare at the ceiling beams. Two art gala events.
Two artists who die of a heart attack. I consider the implications.
This would make anyone suspicious. Never mind a cop.
I want to hire my own private detective for this. Anything to protect my investments.
I know it’s more than that. The truth sits uncomfortably in my chest. It’s not just about protecting investments anymore. It’s about protecting her.
The cops talk to all the board members, take statements. I submit to questioning without Harris present, something I rarely do, because I don’t feel like it’s an inquisition...yet. The word ‘yet’ echoes in my mind. Depends on the toxicology report.
I wish—more than once—I’d broken one of the rules. Texting. We never exchanged numbers, and now I’m regretting it. The absence of this simple connection gnaws at me. I see the usefulness of it when you actually want to communicate with someone.
And can’t.
I want to let her know Officer Pete will probably stop by tomorrow. I’ll have to beat him to it. The thought spurs me to action, but I check my watch and 2 AM glows back at me. Too early.
I sleep in the boathouse. It’s a good spot to think. Fine, I admit. It makes me feel closer to Mandy. The memories of our kiss on the dock. I’m sure I sleep, but it’s off and on, and it doesn’t feel like good sleep, because I want morning to come, because first thing I’m heading over to Mandy’s.
What is too early? Five? Six? Seven? Each hour ticks by with excruciating slowness.
Eight. That’s not too early. I’ll come to debrief and maybe make her breakfast. There will be a board meeting, I’m sure.
Morning finally comes and I drag myself out of bed, shower, and change. I grab a few basics from the small fridge. The early morning air carries a crisp edge as I drive to Mandy’s, arriving at 8:30. Her car is gone, the driveway empty.
I should have gone with seven. Just in case, I knock at the door. I want to enter and start on breakfast, because it shouldn’t take long. Maybe she went to the gallery. Hopefully, because that means I’ll intercept the police.
The shed at the side of the house catches my attention. The door stands wide open, a warm light spilling out onto the dewy grass. Something about the light draws me closer, like a beacon in the morning shadows.
Of course, I’m curious. The shed is a bit rundown, weathered wood showing signs of age.
The hinges creak as I approach, and I notice loose boards that need attention.
A date with a hammer and nail would do wonders, and a fresh coat of paint would transform it.
Suddenly, I’m seeing all the things I want to do for her.
It goes on a list in my head, each repair a way to show I care without words.
I head to the shed, noting the grass needs mowing. The blades are thick and damp with morning dew. I’d mow right now, but the grass is still too wet. I expect to find the usual lawnmowers, gas cans, lawn tools. Instead, I’m standing in the doorway, struck silent by what I see.
It takes a few minutes to process what I’m seeing.
It’s her art studio. Of course. I should have figured that. The scent of paint fills the small space, mingling with the earthy smell of wood. Brushes stand in jars, their bristles stained with color. A palette sits on a small table, dried paint forming a rainbow of texture.
That’s not the surprise. It’s the paintings I see lined up.
They are in the same style as Alexander Silvano’s, but I swear, they’re a notch better.
Or a few notches. The colors burst with life.
Deep crimsons, rich blues, golden yellows that seem to glow in the morning light.
There is more depth, more to think about in the odd way she presented the facial features, the large eyes, or the jagged misaligned face.
Each painting tells a story that pulls you in, demands you look closer.
My heart does a dance. If she chooses to grow as an artist by studying and imitating Silvano’s work, she’s going to be thrilled to learn Alexander Silvano will be at the gallery. And she gets to plan it! The excitement builds in my chest as I imagine her reaction.
I can’t wait to see the brightness on her face, the light in her eyes, and her smile. I’d do anything to see that smile. She’ll squeal. She’ll be gushing with excitement.
More gets added to the list in my head. This studio needs better lighting.
The single bulb casting harsh shadows doesn’t do her work justice.
The old sofa in the corner, blanket rumpled as if she spent the night there, should be replaced with something more comfortable.
Something worthy of an artist of her caliber.
There are other paintings under tarps, their shapes mysterious and tempting.
I’m tempted to peek but know she wouldn’t like that.
The covered canvases loom like secrets in the corner, and I respect her privacy enough to let them stay hidden.
I study her work again, drawn back to the exposed paintings.
Something tickles the back of my mind. The painting I inherited from my great uncle.
It was a Silvano. It was in this style, and I remember noting the rich colors, the depth of the message in the paint. It reminds me of Mandy’s.
No. She wouldn’t, right?
My uncle had to have acquired that painting years ago.
There’s no way she’s selling forgeries. But every artist has to survive, make money.
The thought nags at me, persistent and troubling.
I want to dash back home and see the artist’s signature.
I didn’t even look, just assumed. Silvano has a very refined, unique style. I knew it was his right away.
The rumble of an engine breaks through my thoughts.
Her car pulls into the driveway, gravel crunching under tires.
I shut off the light and close the door to the shed, wincing at the loud creak of rusty hinges.
She sees me just as I turn the corner. The transformation on her face is immediate.
Exhaustion morphs into suspicion. Dark circles shadow her eyes, and even her movements speak of bone-deep weariness.
Her shoulders slump slightly, her usual confident stride replaced by something slower, heavier.
“What are you doing?” she says, words shooting out like arrows.
Whoa. The accusation in her voice hits me square in the chest. Suddenly, it’s apparent to me I should not have entered her studio, but I didn’t know it was a studio, her private place. I thought I’d find lawnmowers and paint buckets. Do I admit I entered?
Honesty, Seymour. The need for truth burns in my chest. I crave it and need it after living with parents who were emotional zombies.
She marches to the corner, her feet crushing the damp grass, her gaze fixed on the shed door like it might reveal all its secrets.
“Yes,” I say gently, trying to diffuse the tension crackling between us. “I saw the light was on, the door open. I thought it was a tool shed.”
Her face turns various colors, all in the span of a few seconds.
They flame crimson, spreading across her cheeks like wildfire, then slowly change to a rosy pink.
Her eyes widen, pupils dilating with what looks like fear, and she goes pale.
Like she figures out I saw her paintings.
If they are forgeries and she sells them, then I understand the changing colors. I understand why she’s upset.
“Hey,” I say, with tenderness, and reach out for her hand. The gesture catches her off guard. I feel her fingers tremble in mine, sense her instinct to pull away. I release her hand and open my arms. “Come here.”
She hesitates, and this could be a make-or-break moment. The morning air feels charged with possibility—or disaster. We might have had the shortest romance in history.
“I apologize for entering your studio. I didn’t know.”
I watch as the tension slowly drains from her face; her features soften like ice melting in the sun, and she walks into my embrace.
The moment she steps into my arms, I notice she accepts the apology but also closes the conversation.
No asking about the paintings. I soak in her warmth, breathing in the faint scent of coffee that clings to her clothes.
We stay that way for a few heavenly moments before I realize she’s trembling, small shivers running through her body.
“Let’s go,” I say, taking charge, my voice gentle but firm.
“Huh?”
“Inside. You’re taking a hot bath, and I’m making breakfast. Officer Pete will probably be stopping by. Nothing to worry about. Basic questions. He talked to all of us last night.” And yes, I purposefully leave a question in my words that ask Why did you leave?
She stops, flashes me a questioning look back, her eyes dark with something that looks like worry.
“What?” I ask.
“I was just at the station. He talked to me there.” She purses her lips, then adds, “It wasn’t nothing to worry about. And it wasn’t basic questions.”