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He chews at his lip. Waits until I’m at the counter. “She’s not here.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
Robert closes the ledger. “I’m not lying. She was supposed to open this morning. I got here at one and the door was still locked.”
Nervousness crawls at the pit of my gut. She knew the security guards who came out to the street. Daphne wasn’t afraid of them. One of them said something about it being time to go. I didn’t get the impression it was permanent, though. Security moves people around from time to time. Not in a way that makes them miss their shifts at a job they love. Daphne loves her job here. She loves painting. The commission thrilled her.
“Is she sick?”
Robert shakes his head. “I haven’t heard.” His brow furrows, like he’s deciding whether or not to say. “I don’t know, Mr. Leblanc.”
Well, what the fuck? The painting feels oversized in my hands now. I feel foolish for bringing it here. I was so worried that she’d think I’d given up. I assumed she’d still be here. Even with the security thing happening. I thought she would be where I left her.
“If there’s anything I can do—”
“No.”
I need more information, and I’m not going to get it from Robert. The most I can get from him is a promise to call me when she comes back. I go out the door to Motif. Cross the sidewalk. Wrench open the back door of the SUV. Logan startles. “Mr. Leblanc—”
“Stay where you are.” I shove the painting into the back seat and get in after it. My heart tries to race, but I don’t let it. I breathe deep. “Drive three blocks and pull over.”
Logan doesn’t ask any questions. He drives three blocks and stops in front of an alley. I take it to the next block. Aging brick. Wet concrete. Tracks in the snow. Snowflakes like moths around street lamps. The bottoms of the clouds burn orange from the pollution. They’re like a hand over the city, those clouds. A big palm keeping everything in. It’s not a small enough space. There are too many factors to control beneath the dome of the sky. A courier on a bike is a collection of angles, his bag a protrusion on one side. Chain wasn’t meant for riding in winter. Every rusty squeak bounces back from store windows. Two blocks. One block.
The alley by Motif is empty. I keep my pace the same on the way to her door. No signs of security guards at the building across the street.
Count to three. Pick the lock. This door lets me out onto a landing between the two doors. Robert must have been about to close when I came in, because he’s not there now. No lights on in the back room. No ambient glow from the front of the gallery. The staircase up to Daphne’s floor creaks in the middle, but not at the sides. I take them two at a time.
Her navy-blue doormat greets me in front of her door. Last time I was here, she had some canvases stacked at the end of the hall. They’re not here now. She could have taken them inside her apartment to paint. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for an artist to get lost in a piece.
Forget her shift at the gallery. If there’s one thing Daphne loves more than working at the gallery, it’s making art. I know that about her. It’s in every picture that was taken of her at college and in everything she paints. It’s possible to get evocative works out of hate, or even spite, but it’s rare. Daphne doesn’t strike me as a spiteful person. A person with secrets, yes. A person too innocent for the world, yes. But spite? No. That’s not where her art comes from.
I stand on the doormat and hold my breath. My heart picks up in opposition, but it settles.
No light comes from around the doorframe, suggesting that there are no lights on inside. I wait a few minutes for my eyes to settle. It could be she’s painting in low light, at her window easel, but I don’t think so. The building’s heat turns on again with a metallic rumble.
The only sound.
No footsteps. No music. No light.
I count to ten and pick the lock.
I was certain she wasn’t here when I left the Lehmann piece. I’m not certain now. The best-case scenario is that she’s painting and has lost track of time. The worst-case scenario is that she’s sick, or hurt, and somehow no one from that security firm has noticed.
It doesn’t take long to get the door open. The knob is smooth under my hand. It turns without resistance.
It’s not right, and I know it from the first step. The sound is different. So different that I reach for the light switch on the wall. The light burns my eyes and I blink it away.
She’s not here. And neither are her things. Her sofa is still here. Nothing else. I make a right into her kitchen and pull open the cupboards one by one. No teacup in the sink. No dishes in the cupboards. The dish towel from above the sink is gone. Her refrigerator hums in one corner. Empty, except for three bottled waters in a lower shelf that was clearly overlooked.
A loud buzz in my ears. It slowly resolves into a rush of blood. My footsteps echo on the way through her bedroom. The mirrored door of the medicine cabinet hangs open. Empty, empty, empty. A bare mattress is all that’s left in her bedroom. No comforter tugged up to the pillows. No clothes in the narrow closet.
The scent of her is almost gone. So weak it’s like she wasn’t here at all. They’ve left her lace curtains. Whoever came through here didn’t bother to take the curtains. I find myself at the window without any impression of the steps it takes to get there. Lace crumples in my hands. It’s rougher than it looks. I half-hope to see her on the sidewalk below me, coming home, but what would she come home to? There’s nothing here. I’m the only thing waiting.
Anger scorches the inside of my ribs. It’s all claws and teeth. Three-dimensional and violent. A sound—the lace curtains beginning to tear. I let go of them, but what’s the fucking point? She left this place. She left me. To a place I can’t find her.
What was I thinking?Go, then, little painter.I told her to go. I should have known better than that. The first rule of acquisition is to keep the object in your sights. She makes me unreasonable. She makes me forget the rules of my life. My anger shouts all this down. It’s like heavy footsteps on another floor of the house. Always threatening, never coming close. Not until they do and by then it’s too late.
What if it’s too late?
