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“Okay, but bear with me a minute,” Josh says. “Remember the Andy WarholMarilynpaintings, the ones the performance artist shot at? The damage became part of the art.”
“But I’m notAndy Warhol,” I tell him, raising my voice without meaning to. “And even if I covered up the word successfully,I’dknow what was underneath.”
“Okay, okay, I hear you,” he says, scratching hard at an eyebrow. “So-so we’re going to have to come up with an excuse. That maybe there was, uh, some kind of damage. Water damage, let’s say, and we’re postponing your part of the show until you can make repairs.”
I nod, unable to think of any other excuse.
“Nell,” Josh yells toward the front part of the gallery. “Come back in and help us take these down.”
He steps into action before she returns, lifting a collage off the wall, carrying it into his office, and then returning for the next. His moves are slightly frantic, like he’s expecting an invading army. I fumble through my bag for my phone and text Nicky, my fingers trembling so much that I have to backspace and correct my words a couple of times.
Sorry. There’s a problem. Meet me outside gallery. Do not come in.
Nell returns and reaches for one of the collages.
“Hold on,” I say before she can remove it from the wall. With my hand still shaking, I scroll through my photos until I locate the sketch Alejandro drew for me and hold it up for her. “Did you see anyone who looked like this today?”
She steps closer and examines the screen.
“Maybe,” she says. “Yeah, it could be one of the guys who came in alone. He had a baseball cap and sunglasses, but I could see he had a big face and a skinny mustache.”
“Wait, what are you saying?” Josh asks, as he returns from the office.
“Someone’s been stalking me,” I tell him. “He broke into my place, and also left me a note with the same stamp mark on it.”
He stops in his tracks, and a deep crease forms between his brows, marring that handsome face of his. “You think it’s the same guy?”
“It must be.”
“And youknowhim? Is it someone you were involved with?”
I swear his shoulders relax a little; perhaps he’s relieved to discover this has nothing to do with the gallery.
“No, I don’t know him at all. But someone seems to be after me, because of some money that was left to me.”
Josh shakes his head. “I’m really sorry and we can talk later, but for now we need to get the stuff down.” He glances at his watch. “Shit, it’s ten till. Can you help me—because I need Nell back out front?”
“Yup.” Though I can’t bear the thought of touching the pieces, I don’t have any choice.
Josh grabs another collage, and I follow suit, and before long all ten are leaning against a wall in his office. I stare at them, my stomach roiling. I’d taken such care to wrap and pack each piece before transporting them to the gallery, and now they look like castoffs, which I guess they are. There’s a good chance no one will ever set eyes on them.
“Can you keep your office locked?” I ask, turning back to Josh. “In case the guy comes back?”
“Just a sec,” he says. He’s got his phone out, typing at the speed of light. “Okay, I’ve let our PR person know. And I’m thinking now that we probably shouldn’t claim there was water damage because, well, for one thing, it might make the gallery look negligent. Let’s just be vague, okay? We can say that a couple of the pieces were lightly damaged en route and since the collages are meant to be a series, we’re holding off until we can present everything together down the road. How does that sound?”
How does it sound? It sounds like his first priority is covering his ass.
“Sure... I’d better go now.”
“You don’t want to stick around for the party?” he asks, finally making eye contact again. “There’ll be collectors here, you’d at least get to meet them.”
“No, I need to find my family.”
“Gotcha. I’m sorry again. Let’s talk tomorrow,” he says, looking over my shoulder. I turn to see Nell in the entranceway.
“Harry is here,” she says. “And I think Skyler’s family might be out on the sidewalk.” She glances at me. “Four people, including a girl who looks kind of like you. I told them that they need to wait outside for a bit.”
I nod, mutter a goodbye, and stumble from the office into the front room of the gallery. There’s a guy pouring himself a glass of wine, and I recognize him as the photographer whose work is hanging in the front room. Instead of complimenting him, though, I rush right by and step out into the night.
