The sound of the front bell cuts through the moment—a sharp chime from the gallery door.
We both freeze.
“I’ll get it,” she says, stepping back, smoothing her scarf with a trembling hand.
But before she can move, the phone on the nearby desk starts to ring.
I touch her wrist. “You take the call. I’ll get the door.”
She hesitates, caught between instinct and obligation, then nods. “Okay.”
Her voice is light, but I can see the flicker of nerves behind her eyes, that familiar artist’s worry about her space, her work, her world.
I give her a small nod—steady, reassuring—and turn toward the sound of the bell.
The gallery is quiet as I move through it, my boots echoing softly on the polished floor. The light from outside has dimmed, settling into that bruised blue of early evening. The windows fog faintly from the heat inside, the air thick with the scent of paint and wood polish.
At first, I think the person outside is just another late customer. Then I look closer.
A man stands just beyond the glass door, half-shadowed by the awning lights. His coat is worn, edges fraying, the color somewhere between gray and brown. He’s rocking back and forth slightly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he can’t quite hold still. His hands twitch at his sides, gloved but restless. There’s somethingoffin the rhythm, like this hands are moving too fast to keep up with the actual beat.
Every instinct in me tightens.
I stop a few feet from the door, my reflection overlapping his in the glass. He’s watching the floor until he isn’t. Then his head lifts, and I catch the look in his eyes—unfocused, searching, something sharp flickering behind it.
I unlock the deadbolt and crack the door open just enough to be polite, just enough to be ready.
“Can I help you?” My tone is level, but my body’s already braced, one hand resting casually against the frame.
His eyes dart past me, scanning the room. “I’m looking for Willow,” he says. His voice is low but shaky, too eager, too practiced. “She works here, right? I saw her earlier—trying to get inside.”
“She’s unavailable,” I say immediately.
The man’s mouth twitches. “No, I just saw her,” he insists, leaning forward like he thinks I’ll move if he gets close enough. “She was out front—she dropped something. I need to give it back.”
He doesn’t have anything in his hands.
My jaw tightens. “You’re mistaken,” I say, flattening my voice. “The gallery’s closed.”
He studies me then—eyes flicking up and down, measuring. The rocking stops. “You her boyfriend?” he asks, smirking faintly, the question sliding out oily and thin.
“Husband,” I correct, the word sharp and cold. “And you’re done here.”
Something flickers across his expression—disappointment, maybe frustration—but he steps back half an inch, eyes narrowing. His gaze flicks over my shoulder toward the back hall, where Willow’s voice is faint on the phone.
I shift, blocking his view completely.
“Gallery’s closed,” I repeat. “Happy holidays.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the flash of red and blue lights reflecting off the glass—a patrol car creeping past on its evening loop. I see him see it, too.
He forces a smile, thin and wrong. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Happy holidays.”
He turns abruptly and walks away, his steps uneven on the snow-dusted pavement, his reflection stretching across the glass until he’s gone.
I watch until he rounds the corner. Only then do I lock the door—deadbolt first, then the latch. I check it twice before I turn back.
The warmth of the gallery feels heavier now, like the air’s holding its breath.
