Chapter 26 #2
I grab a small marble statue from the hallway table. Not much, but better than nothing.
Heart pounding, I kick open the office door and enter, ready for confrontation. Then my arm drops to my side.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
28
Mandy
Seymour pulls out and heads home from the boathouse.
I sit for a moment in my car, letting my hands rest in my lap as the engine idles.
The leather seat cradles me, offering a temporary bubble of safety.
Through the cracked window, the night air carries the sound of wind in the leaves and the hooting of an owl.
Distant sirens pierce the quiet, but they seem far away, disconnected from this moment.
My gaze drifts to the dock running alongside the boathouse where it meets the water. The wooden planks gleam faintly under the security lights, marking the spot that’s become special for us. For Seymour and me. If I can even say we’re a thing.
I said, I like you. I like kissing you.
That was after he hinted at love.
The words affect me, making my chest tight. I wasn’t expecting that confession from him. Doesn’t that come later in a relationship? We’ve barely made up after the date fiasco. My response must have come across like I’m not really interested in pursuing things further.
Except, I am.
And I do understand the temptation to run a wealth test, especially after what happened with Anna.
My hands drift to the steering wheel, fingers tracing the smooth leather as I consider it.
With that much money, it must be hard to trust anyone’s intentions.
Maybe that’s why his closest friend is his lawyer.
Somewhere along the line my feelings of disdain toward Seymour changed.
The realization settles in my chest, warm and unexpected.
It was the small things. The way he showed the sides of himself no one else sees.
Those moments when his guard drops and his eyes soften.
That made me feel special. The way he works with kids, patient and encouraging.
The way he made himself vulnerable and brought me here, to his boathouse.
The night that changed my life when it comes to my art.
My new paintings. I close my eyes and breathe deep, the familiar ache of creativity stirring.
For the first time in years, I’m inspired. Something could come of this newest idea. The thought of showing Seymour makes my stomach flutter. I want to see his reaction.
Geez. It’s like my heart has forgotten all about Todd and what happened after I showed him my work. My fingers drum against the wheel as tension creeps back in. Seymour isn’t like that. Seymour isn’t an artist. Seymour already has money.
I know. But still...
My phone vibrates on the passenger seat, the screen lighting up the dark interior. My heart leaps at the thought it might be Seymour. I glance down. Barrie. Not a text or a call. She wants a video chat.
I join the call. “Hey. Sorry, I’m in the car.”
The screen shows Barrie settled on her couch, surrounded by throw pillows in shades of teal and coral that she’s always collecting. The warm lighting in her living room casts a cozy glow. “You’re not home yet?”
“Um, no. Seymour and I were talking. I’m on my way home now.” The words come out too quickly, and I know my face gives away more than I want it to.
Barrie’s eyes sparkle with that knowing look, but it fades quickly into something more serious. Her shoulders tense as she leans closer to the camera.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, adjusting my phone against the steering wheel.
“I don’t know. You know how we’ve felt we’re missing something when it comes to the death of Eugene and Darren?” She glances off-screen, and I hear Miles moving around in the background.
I nod, my earlier contentment evaporating. “Yes. I mean, they are thinking maybe Diana and this guy, Jack. But what’s the motive? It could be total coincidence.”
“Whatever. I don’t believe in coincidence anymore.
Not when it comes to murder.” Barrie shifts forward, her voice dropping lower.
“I’ve been searching multiple times, the name John Walters and Jack Hansen, trying to see if anything else comes up.
Something that will help you steer your questions to Diana at the event tomorrow night. ”
My fingers tighten on the phone. “You found something?”
She nods, excitement breaking through her serious expression. “I might have. It might not be anything. I found a little-known paper, published years ago.” She pauses, building the suspense. “Okay, ready? Brace yourself.”
I lean back in my seat, trying to prepare myself. This could be what we need to lift the gallery out of this murder mess. But a part of me doesn’t want to know the motive. If Diana is involved somehow, then the gallery is doomed.
“Okay,” she takes a breath. “Diana Hansen used to be a professor of art history. She co-authored this little-known paper with a student, John Walters.”
The connection clicks in my head. “So maybe John Walters is his real name?”
“Or a pseudonym. Either way, it’s what they wrote about that might be the clue.”
“What is it? Something to do with art?” I try to imagine what kind of academic paper could possibly connect to murder, but nothing makes sense.
“They’re Nazi hunters,” she says, quite breathless.
Miles calls out from off the screen. “Just a theory. Might be farfetched, too!”
“Explain,” I say, my pulse quickening at the implications.
“Their writing had a subtle tone of animosity toward the families, the people, who now own these priceless paintings, even if they’re unaware. They state, everyone who owns art has the responsibility to learn about the origination of the work. In other words—”
“If they are looking for vengeance, they might take it out on the current owners.” The words feel heavy as they leave my mouth.
Barrie lowers her voice further, glancing around as if someone might overhear. “I know it’s a little out there, but maybe you can hint around to Diana. See how she responds.”
We say goodbye because now I want to get home and do some research myself. I need to figure out how I’m going to weave this line of questioning into a conversation. Do the cops know about this?
I drive home, the shock of this reveal staying with me. I’ve worked with Diana for a couple years, and she’s so solid and even-keeled. She’s smart, and she’s passionate about art and the gallery. When I have talked about my art, she’s been nothing but encouraging.
And she could be a murderer?
I don’t want to believe it.
The sirens I heard earlier grow louder as I get closer to my home. Through the windshield, I see a dark plume of smoke rising against the night sky. Too close for comfort.
I pull into my small side street right as fire engines race toward me, their red lights painting everything in an eerie glow. I pull over and they pass, the sound of their sirens vibrating through my chest.
I peer down the road and gasp. My house appears to be on fire.
I leave my car there and stumble out, my legs shaking so badly I have to grab the door frame to steady myself.
The closer I get, the thicker the smoke becomes, an oppressive wall of gray that stings my eyes and burns my throat.
Each breath is a struggle as the acrid smoke fills my lungs.
My heart pounds so hard the sound of it drowns out even the wailing sirens, and spots dance at the edge of my vision.
A neighbor calls out something but their words are lost in the roar of the fire trucks.
I force myself forward even though my legs feel like they might give out at any moment, driven by pure panic and the need to know if my home is really ablaze.
I race toward it.
A fireman materializes through the smoke, his arms outstretched. “Miss, you can’t go any further.”
“That’s my house!” The words tear from my throat, but then through the haze of smoke, I realize it’s not my house.
It’s my studio.
What was once a garage, then a tool shed, had become my sanctuary.
The reality of what’s happening hits me as panic rises, coating my mouth with a bitter taste. Every breath becomes harder as my chest constricts.
Words fail me. Air fails me.
The flames dominate the night sky, red and orange streaked with blue. Their heat pushes against my skin as they devour my studio.
One side collapses with a thunderous crack that reverberates through my bones. My knees nearly give out.
My paintings. My beautiful night sky with all its shades of fire. It was prophetic. Now it burns. In this moment, I understand why parents would dive into burning buildings to save their children.
I push past the fireman and run toward the inferno.
“Hey!” he yells.
Maybe I can make it inside quickly. Save just one painting. That’s all I need. Just the one. I can picture it sitting on the easel, right inside the door.
It won’t take long.
I’m almost there, the water from the hoses creating a misty barrier between me and my goal, when strong hands grab my arm.
“You can’t go in there.” It’s the fireman I ran past, his voice firm but gentle. “It’s not safe.”
He holds me while I fight against him. While I cry and scream until my voice gives out and my strength drains away.
It’s burning. All of it.
The firefighters work efficiently, and soon the roaring flames die down to smoking rubble, but what remains is a blackened shell of my creative space.
I sink to the ground, my legs no longer able to support me.
People speak around me, their voices a meaningless blur. Someone lifts me up, guides me away. A blanket appears around my shoulders, its rough texture barely registering. I’m not really here.
Instead, I’m back in my studio on the night I finished that painting. The brush is in my hand, paint fresh on the palette. I’m mixing colors, watching brilliant hues bloom across the canvas in sweeping strokes. I’m there, in that perfect moment of pure creation.
Until I’m not.
“Mandy!” The sharp voice cuts through my daze. Scott pulls me into his arms, understanding flooding his features. He knows what this studio means to me, knows how many hours I’ve spent here pursuing my dreams. Even if he can’t fully comprehend it, he understands enough.
“It’s okay. You’re okay.” He hugs me close, trying to guide me away from the scene.
I plant my feet, looking back at the ruins. My voice comes out rough and broken. “Can I go inside?”
“Your studio?” His expression grows grim as he shakes his head. “It’s not safe. Maybe tomorrow.”
My heart twists as I take one final look. There’s no way anything survived. To the firefighters, to my brother, to the world, it might have been a small fire in an old shed. But to me, it was everything.
Morning arrives with cruel persistence.
No, I didn’t sleep in case you’re wondering. How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw flames.
I make my way downstairs, each step requiring conscious effort.
My body feels weighted with exhaustion and devastation.
The shock hasn’t worn off. If anything, it’s settled deeper into my bones.
Scott stands in the kitchen, a steaming mug of coffee waiting on the counter.
The simple gesture brings fresh tears to my eyes. Over coffee, of all things.
He wraps me in a hug before guiding me to the table. Something warm fills the air with the scent of cinnamon. Likely Grace’s French toast casserole they know I love. Pure comfort food. The familiar aroma only emphasizes how everything else has changed.
“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Scott says, his voice rough with emotion. “That you weren’t there. That it wasn’t your house.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. “But if I was there, I could have stopped it. I could have called the fire department earlier. Everything could’ve been saved.” My voice cracks. “And I would’ve preferred the house.”
“What about your work?” he asks carefully, watching my face.
Fresh tears spill over. Honestly, I don’t cry this much, but I have a feeling it’s going to be one of those days, weeks. I try to shrug but my shoulders are too tense. The words scrape past the tightness in my throat. “Probably gone. I won’t know until I can go in.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t pretend to understand, but I can see the grief written all over you.”
Of course, he can. Everyone will be able to see it. It feels like I’m wearing it like a second skin.
“What about today?” he asks.
Today?
Oh. The Silvano event.
“We can cancel the whole thing,” he offers, leaning forward. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll call Diana or Seymour. They can cover for you. We’ll have Seymour wear the wire.”
It would be so easy to take his offer of escape. To hide in my room all day, buried under blankets. But that would be pure misery. And Todd would assume I couldn’t face him.
I straighten my spine, finding a reserve of strength I didn’t know I had. “I’ll do it.”