The air that spills out is cold and smells wrong, a bitter cocktail of wet ash, melted plastic, and the sharp chemical tang of a fire extinguisher. Inside, Frank is gone, his shift over. A younger, bulkier security guard I don’t recognize is standing in the middle of the room, clipboard in hand, surveying the scene with a bored expression.
The damage… isn’t what I expected.
A large, ugly black scorch mark mars the wall near the back entrance, crawling up to the ceiling. The floor beneath it is a mess of white powder and sooty water. One of our tables, the one we’d designated for the hot chocolate station, is a melted, skeletal ruin of plastic and metal. But that’s it.
The garlands are damp but intact. The fairy lights are off, but they don’t look broken. The half-finished rink frame outside is untouched.
“You Artie Patton?” the guard asks without looking at me.
“Yeah. What happened?”
He shrugs, gesturing with his pen at the blackened wall. “Someone piled a bunch of decorations and spare wiring on that table and lit ‘em up. Trip wire on the back door was cut, too. Amateur hour. Sprinklers went off in this zone thirty seconds after the heat sensors tripped. Barely had time to do any real damage.” He finally looks at me, his gaze cynical. “Looks like a prank, you ask me. End-of-semester bullshit. Some frat probably trying to get a rise out of you artsy types.”
A prank. The word feels too small for the cold dread coiling in my stomach. “It does seem that way,” I agree, my voice tight.
A prank, yeah. Like the broken coolant line was a prank. Like all the other little acts of sabotage were just kids having fun.
My eyes scan the room, looking for anything else out of place, anything that doesn’t fit.
And then I see it.
Leaning against the far wall, away from the mess, in a spot that was definitely empty when I left last night, is a large, rectangular object draped in a canvas drop cloth.
I walk toward it, my boots squelching softly on the damp floor. The guard watches me, mildly interested now.
“What’s this?” I ask, my hand hovering over the cloth.
“No idea. Wasn’t there on my first sweep. Must’ve been tucked away in a corner somewhere.”
With trembling fingers, I grab the corner of the drop cloth and pull it away.
The breath leaves my lungs in a silent whoosh.
It’s my painting.
Winter’s Respite.The one Marianne just sold. The birch trees are stark and white against the deep indigo sky, the snow rendered in thick, textured strokes of oil paint. It’s my work, my soul, right here in front of me. But it’s different. When it was sold, it was in a simple, gallery-mandated pine frame. Now it’s housed in a magnificent, dark wood frame, almost black, with intricate silver leaf detailing at the corners. It looks antique, expensive, and perfect for the painting it feels like it was born from the canvas itself. It makes my art look… important.
I stare, my mind completely blank with shock. How? Why?
I stumble back a step, pulling out my phone and dialing Marianne before I’ve even fully processed what I’m doing. She picks up on the second ring, her voice groggy.
“Artie? It’s six in the morning. Is everything okay?”
“The painting,” I say, my voice a strangled whisper. “Winter’s Respite. I need to know who bought it.”
“What? Darling, what’s going on?” Her voice sharpens with concern.
“I can’t explain right now, Marianne, I just… I need a name. Please.”
I can hear the sound of typing on her end. A pause. A frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry, Artie. The final sale was processed through a third-party acquisitions agent. The buyer made it very, very clear they wished to remain anonymous. Wires were sent from an untraceable corporate account. There are layers of legal protection. It’s a dead end.”
“Anonymous,” I repeat hollowly, staring at my painting standing in the wreckage of my Christmas party. “Right. Of course.”
~ ~ ~
The rest of the morning passes in a surreal blur.
After a useless meeting with a campus dean who promises a “full investigation,” I somehow manage to drag myself to my ten a.m. Modern Art Theory lecture.
