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I’m lying.
I know what her question means—are you ready to close the last deal of our career and retire to the dream houses we bought in Falk Isle?
I’m not.
I’ve lived more in the four years since starting this business than most people live in a lifetime. I’ve met some of the sweetest people and others who make my skin crawl to this day. I’ve had more identities than I have surviving family members. I’ve lived in more cities than I have fingers on both hands. And yet I’m not done.
She clasps my hand and squeezes it reassuringly.
“You’re fidgeting. It’s going to be fine, Anni. It’s no different than all the other jobs.”
I pull my hand out of her hold when I feel it getting clammy, wiping it on my dress before I grab onto the collar of it and make some room for air to go through.
“It’s hot in here. Why didn’t we cool the car before we left? The painting is going to melt.”
“It’s insulated and protected. It will be fine,” she says, squeezing my hand again.
I won’t.
Before every meeting, I ask myself, sometimes Hanna too, the same sort of questions. Will they know? Did I make a mistake? Did I miss something? It’s funny how the same questions give me anxiety, only I’m looking for different answers now. I’ll get them soon enough, if my plan goes well.
I slam back into the seat, catching the gaze of the driver in the rear-view mirror. He averts it quickly, but I don’t miss the slight uneasiness.
“Is there something going on with…” I subtly point to him as I whisper to Hanna.
She’s smirking. “I think you’re a myth to them. They didn’t have much proof of your existence until recently.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We’ve had this team for months now, and up until two days ago, none have seen you properly. I think they’ve seen your shadow around the house, the blur of you as you quickly emerged for snacks before running back to your studio. But nothing more.”
“Oh…”
I turn back in my seat and catch a glimpse of both the driver and the passenger trying to steal looks. It dawns on me that I don’t even know their names. I’m awful. They’ll think I don’t care, that I’m some bitch who thinks nothing of them. But that’s not the case at all. I just… disappear.
“Don’t worry. I’ve explained to them that when you work, you retreat in your own little world, like a parallel dimension where you can live in the strokes of your paintings. They knew they wouldn’t really get to see you, but they had to keep you safe wherever you were hiding. I think they’re just getting their fill of your beautiful face while they have you.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes.
“Sure. Stop talking like I’m some fair maiden living in a tower with princes lining up to catch a glimpse.”
“You may as well be.”
I scoff, ending that subject then and there. I’m a weird recluse, not some freaking fair maiden.
The period buildings of Queenscove’s old center make an appearance outside the car windows, distracting me. They’re imposing in their beauty, not their size, the ocean acting as their background on the left side.
We’ve been here for a little longer than we usually settle in one place. Although we’ve been fairly hidden, since this last deal has taken so much longer to complete. But I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I’ve stalled slightly too. One day, after I was cooped up in my studio for just over four weeks, frustrations running high, anxiety beginning to cripple me, I needed air. I had to get away from that space, the house. It happens rarely, but this particular job has been different. It’s the end of our journey, and there’s something about this Laurent Dubois painting that gave me so much trouble.
Maybe it’s the meaning of it.
Either way, that night I ran out of my studio, out of the house, and lost myself in Queenscove’s streets. Before I knew it, I was here, in the old center, and the ocean at the end of all these streets made me fall in love hard. There’s something about this city that speaks to a different side of me than the one who wants to live in a cottage, in a small fishing village.
So, I stalled. Just a little bit.
“We’re here.” Hanna startles me out of my thoughts.
The car stops and out her window, the private back entrance of the Rosenberg Hotel greets us. It’s been one day, twenty-three hours, and thirty-five minutes since I laid eyes on Ronan Hennessey for the first time. In person.
