13. June
JUNE
The world outside the Aiden June Gallery is a battle between fog and sun, neither one willing to let the other have the day.
Typical Massachusetts. I’m standing on the sidewalk, rocking slightly on my heels, staring at the front of my own gallery like I’ve seen a ghost, and in some ways, I guess I have.
No one in their right mind would call it inviting.
The sign above the door sags a little more than last season.
The E in “June” dangles by a thread, like it’s too tired to stand up straight.
The glass is streaked with grime and sand, and every pane catches the early-morning light in the worst way.
A film of salt on the windows makes me wonder when we last washed them, and a spider ventures across the lower-left corner, undaunted by my presence.
I can’t blame anyone but myself for the outside appearance. An absentee owner is never a good thing in a small business. I’m just grateful I had people in my life willing to step up to keep the place running while I dealt with the storm my life had become. I need to give Sarah a raise.
I brace myself, then slot the key into the lock.
Somehow, all of this feels wrong. It’s like using someone else’s key to a house you’re not sure you own anymore.
The metal sticks halfway through. I tense and try again, and finally, it grinds, giving in with a shudder and a thunk.
It happens all the time, but today, it makes me uneasy.
For a second, I just stand there, heart banging, not sure what I’m expecting.
I act like no one’s been here in a hundred years when Sarah and Mia have; I just don’t remember the last time I crossed this threshold.
If it weren’t for the two of them, I wouldn’t have a business to walk into.
I push the door open.
It sticks for just a second, the weather having warped the frame like it does every year.
Then it yields, exhaling a puff of air that feels like coming home.
The smell is instant—turpentine, linseed oil, and the unmistakable scent of canvas and oil paints.
Some people love the aroma of paperbacks, but I’ve always been a sucker for original art.
I step through, and it hits me that I have no idea what I’m hoping to find.
The lights flicker as I hit the switch. My heart settles as I recognize everything and nothing all at once.
The space is the same, with bright lights, crisp paint, and clean floors, but every piece on the walls is different, along with the artists who painted them.
I turn in awe of what Sarah’s managed to do.
The gallery is full, the nameplates are perfect, and the lighting is brilliant, showcasing each piece in a way I never would’ve thought of. I realize just how talented my best friend really is, and again, I realize just how much she’s done while I’ve been gone…so I could be gone.
My eyes fill with unshed tears of gratitude as I wander deeper into the gallery, admiring all she and Mia have done.
Still, I cross to the registration desk. Even now, after everything, this corner feels like the beating heart of my shop.
I turn toward the back. Every time I touch something, I get a flash of how the place used to be, but this is better.
I don’t know how, but the little changes have brought new life into a space I expected to be dead.
I have no idea why, since the checks kept coming in and the bank account is more robust than ever.
But I didn’t expect this thriving beauty before me.
I feel bad for having underestimated Sarah and her commitment, not just to me, but to the gallery itself.
I move to the window. The blinds are closed, probably by the last person who tried to keep out the worst of the afternoon sun.
The string sticks for a second, but it releases quickly.
For a heartbeat, light floods everything.
It fills the room like a sunrise on a clear morning, and once again, I’m in awe of the light and the color and everything around me.
Then I see him and groan. I close my eyes, count to three, and hope that when I reopen them, the sidewalk will be empty.
No such luck. Mark is standing outside, shoulders square, coat uncharacteristically wrinkled, and his hair is sticking up in tufts like he’s been clawing at his scalp for hours. I have no idea what has been going on in his life, but he looks like I did the week after Mom died.
It’s definitely not the lawyer version of my sister’s ex-husband or the smooth-talker who eats stress for breakfast. This Mark is all under-eye circles and three days’ worth of regret.
His jaw is shadowed with stubble, and when he glances up at the gallery window, his eyes don’t even flinch from mine.
He just stands there, hands in his pockets, radiating the energy of someone who’s been up all night and doesn’t care who notices.
I freeze.
Of course I do. I haven’t even had time to reclaim this space—my space—before he’s here, haunting it.
Why can’t I ever have a minute to myself?
To process things my way. The old irritation flares, then cools, replaced by a tight band of anxiety across my chest. I don’t know what he wants.
I don’t know if I want him here. But his presence is somehow inevitable, and I’m furious at myself for feeling even a hint of relief.
For a second, I let myself just watch. Mark doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even look tired, though the evidence is etched into every line of his face.
He’s waiting. For what, I don’t know. Maybe for me to invite him in. But that seems dangerous and inevitable all at the same time.
I take a shaky breath, bracing both hands on the sill. I try to remember where I am—not in court, not at the Shack, not some family drama playing out in a booth. Here, in my gallery. I have the upper hand. At least, that’s what I try to convince myself of.
And yet, here I am, barely holding up against the shape of a ghost from a past I never wanted. I know, if he’s here, then that past is about to become my present and possibly more of my future. I groan at the thought.
The bell above the door tinkles as Mark pushes inside. He’s moving too fast for it to be casual—like a man on the run, or maybe one who’s given up pretending he ever cared about manners. The jangle echoes around the gallery, collapsing whatever thin composure I had left.
I freeze. Actually freeze.
He looks worse up close. Hair in that post-hangover halo, eyes sunken, shirt rumpled beneath an overcoat that’s seen better months. He doesn’t even try to fix his expression.
“How did you know I’d be here?” It shoots out, sharp as a slap. I make no attempt to hide the suspicion; my arms cross, back braced against the window ledge.
He lifts a hand—stop, don’t shoot—something like an apology on his face. “Relax. I called Ashton when you didn’t answer. I figured if anyone could find you, it’d be him. He said you would be here this morning.”
Rage and shame tangle in my stomach. Of course Ashton would give me up like a pawn on a chessboard. I don’t know why that hurts, but it does. I can’t imagine what Mark told him to get him to rat me out.
Mark shuffles farther into the gallery, dropping his voice to something brittle. “You look as bad as I feel.”
I ignore that because…what’s the alternative? Agree? Instead, I hover inside my own skin, every nerve dialed up to eleven.
He lets out a heavy sigh and finally gets to the point.
“I’ve been digging.” He’s already gravitating to the registration desk like he owns the place.
“There’s something off about the way Ashton’s case tanked.
The timing, for one thing. The jurisdictional shift, for another.
None of it’s how it’s supposed to work.”
He’s talking more to himself than to me.
He snaps open a battered file folder with one hand and starts spreading out legal documents—printouts, forms with lines highlighted in yellow, a few wrinkled notes with scribbled margin commentary that looks like it was written at three in the morning.
I have no idea where it came from; it’s like he produced the document out of thin air.
I linger a few feet away. Not close enough to get sucked in, but close enough that curiosity gnaws through the wall I’m trying to build.
Mark sits—doesn’t ask—just settles behind the desk, dragging the paperwork closer, eyes flicking back and forth between the sheets. He runs a hand through his hair, then blinks hard, fighting off exhaustion with pure will.
Curiosity gets the best of me, and my shoulders sag when I finally let the question out. “What did you find?”
He glances up. And for once, there’s no pretense.
He looks like a kid who stayed up too late and is now regretting his entire life.
“Somebody contacted the feds with a tip. Anonymously. It came in about two weeks before Ashton was released. It was detailed enough to make the investigators pivot. They stopped hounding Ashton and started looking somewhere else. His lawyers have been kept in the dark, along with everyone else.”
My heart thuds so hard I can barely hear the rest. It’s confirmation that everything Ashton said was true, even if it leaves more questions than answers. It provides the most important truth I needed. Ashton didn’t lie to me.
I rest my hip on the metal file cabinet beside the desk, digging my nails into my palm. “When exactly? Like, day and time?”
“Night of the fifteenth. A call routed through a burner phone, but the message was backed up with actual evidence that followed through a dead email address—copies of correspondence, wire transfer data, contracts. Whoever did it, they knew what they were doing.”
The room spins just a little. I stare at the piles of forms, the highlighted lines about conspiracy and misappropriation. None of it makes sense. “But you don’t know who it was…”
He shakes his head, lips pressed tight. “The number dead-ended in Delaware. No name, no return address. The Bureau’s still working to pin it down. That’s why nobody’s in jail yet—the tip turned the case, but it didn’t give them a neat suspect. They’re building from scratch.”
“So, Ashton’s just—what? Off scot-free because some mystery person decided to take a swing?”
He almost smiles at that, but the exhaustion buries it. “Not quite scot-free. The feds will circle back. They always do. But for now, he’s a non-person. He’s not their priority. The fact that the charges have been dropped bodes well for him, though.”
I step closer, unable to help myself. “Who benefits from this? Who would take that kind of risk?”
He shrugs, massaging his temples. “Could be anyone who wanted the heat off Ashton. Could be someone with a grudge, or maybe just a loose end in the original conspiracy. There’s no pattern yet, no obvious motive—just a whiplash redirect that left half a dozen Assistant U.S. Attorneys scrambling in the dark.”
I let that sink in. The idea of being manipulated again—of the story shifting because some faceless stranger called a number in the middle of the night—makes my skin crawl. There’s a bitter taste in my mouth from all that implies.
He taps a document with a bitten nail. “This right here—this is all we’ve got.” He points to an incident report, with the good parts blacked out.
Redaction at its finest—I always wonder who they’re trying to protect and why.
“The tipster dropped just enough to force the Bureau’s hand but not enough to actually close the loop. It’s classic misdirection.”
My mind runs through every scenario, every person I know who could’ve wanted to derail the investigation. The list is long. Too long. But none of them fit how surgical this feels—how impersonal, how professional.
I circle the question, refusing to let it go. “So, what’s next? They just…wait?”
He nods, eyes finally lifting to mine. “They’re tapping phones. Watching emails. They’ll squeeze anyone close to the old case, hoping for a mistake. But until the source slips, nobody’s in cuffs. Not even close.”
The relief is so sharp it almost draws blood. Because if they’re still circling, still uncertain, then maybe… Maybe there’s still time to figure it out myself. Or at least not get blindsided.
I exhale, the sound so loud it echoes off the art-filled walls.
Mark watches me—really watches, as if he can see every thought dragging across my face. “I’ll keep looking. If there’s even a hint of a name, I’ll hear it first. That’s a promise.”
I want to trust him, but there’s a warning bell tolling in the back of my skull. “Why are you helping? I mean, I know we asked you to, but why stick your neck out like this?” It doesn’t make sense. This doesn’t jibe with the Mark we know through Meredith.
He looks away, mouth twisting. “Maybe I’m not the monster you think I am.”
“Jury’s still out on that,” I mutter, but the words don’t have much heat.
Maybe he is a good person; he just wasn’t the right person for Meredith…because that was always Eddie.
A silence settles—heavy but not entirely hostile. There’s just enough room in it for the possibility of a truce.
Mark bends back over the paperwork, eyes narrowed, chasing the next lead. For a second, I just stand behind him, letting the comfort of someone else’s competence do the heavy lifting.
Eventually, I break the silence. “You can stay. For a bit, anyway. Just keep the desk in one piece.”
He actually laughs. It’s tired, frayed at the edges, but it’s real. “Don’t worry. I’ve worked in worse conditions. At least this place has decent lighting.”
I snort, glancing at the crackling fluorescents above. “That’s generous. Harbor lights are on the fritz half the day.”
He puts both hands on the desk, flattening the mess of pages, and looks up again. “June, if you remember anything, anything at all that felt off, you let me know.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure what he wants from me. “Yeah. Okay.”
He settles in, searching through the file like there’s a secret buried just beneath the surface, so I step away, circling the perimeter of the gallery—my gallery—admiring the new artists to grace my walls. It’s a small thing, claiming the room inch by inch, but it helps.
Above the noise of shuffling papers and the occasional wince from Mark, the space fills with possibility. Not hope—let’s not get ahead of ourselves—but a sense that not everything has to end in disaster.
We don’t talk much after that. I take care of what needs to be taken care of. Mark does his lawyer thing, muttering to himself, phone glowing with the latest court filings.
There’s a peace in it. Uneasy, but better than the alternative.
Every so often, I glance at the registration desk and see Mark, hunched and determined. Maybe this is what comes next.
Not forgiveness. Not forgetting.
Just the slow, steady process of trying to reclaim what was lost.