I should be working—planning the exhibition, preparing for Mrs. Valencia, doing literally anything productive. Instead, I'm sitting here trying to find a man who's already found me, who knows where I live and work and run, who's been inside my apartment while I was gone.
The thought makes my skin crawl all over again. I stand abruptly, needing to move, and head out to the gallery floor.
The exhibition pieces are leaning against the wall, still partially wrapped. I start unwrapping them carefully, letting the familiar ritual of handling art calm my racing thoughts. Each piece is large—five feet by four feet—abstract landscapes that blur the line between structure and pure color. Mountains that might be clouds, water that might be sky, all rendered in layers of translucent paint that seem to glow from within.
They're beautiful. Under normal circumstances, I'd be excited about this show. It’s different from the other art we typically display, meant to showcase the diversity in the gallery’s offerings and bring in clients who want more modern or landscape pieces.
But I can barely look at them without my mind wandering back to I.S., to what he wants and when he'll appear again.
"These are stunning."
I spin around, my heart leaping into my throat. But iIt's just a man. A customer. He looks to be in his mid-fifties, wearing an expensive suit and standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets.
"I'm sorry," he says, noticing my reaction. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"No, it's fine. I'm sorry." I press a hand to my chest, trying to slow my racing heart. "Can I help you with something?"
"I'm interested in the Picasso print. I believe I have an appointment?"
"Valencia?" I frown, momentarily confused.
"That's right." He extends his hand, and I shake it, noting the firm grip. "My wife was supposed to come, but she's not feeling well today. I hope that's all right."
"Of course. Let me show you the piece."
I lead him to the back wall where we have the Picasso displayed. It's not as valuable as an original, obviously, but it's still a significant piece. I fall into the familiar rhythm of my job, explaining the provenance, the significance of this particular print in Picasso's body of work, the condition and framing. Mr. Valencia listens attentively, asks intelligent questions, and I can tell he's genuinely interested rather than just buying for status.
This is what I'm good at. This is where I can forget about stalkers and severed hands and a man who beats other men bloody for kissing me. Here, I'm just Mara Winslow, art consultant, professional and knowledgeable and in control.
"I'll take it," Mr. Valencia says after a little while. "Can you have it delivered to our apartment in Tribeca?"
"Absolutely. Let me get the paperwork started."
We move to my desk, and I pull up the sales contract. We discuss payment terms, delivery schedules, insurance. It feels momentarily normal, and I can feel myself relaxing into my chair. When he leaves forty-five minutes later, I have a sixty-five-thousand-dollar sale and a small sense of accomplishment that almost makes me feel human again.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of activity. I finalize the layout for the show, coordinate with the framers about hangingthe pieces, respond to emails from collectors and artists and critics. I have lunch at my desk—a salad I barely taste—and spend the afternoon on the phone with a difficult client who wants to return a piece because it "doesn't match her new rug."
Through it all, I'm overly aware of my surroundings. Every time the gallery door opens, I tense. Every time I see a dark-haired man on the street outside, my pulse spikes. Every time my phone buzzes, I expect another photo, another message, another piece of evidence that I'm being watched.
By the time five o'clock rolls around, I'm exhausted. Claire leaves at five-thirty, and I stay longer, wanting to soak in the feeling of normalcy for just a little longer. I feel safer here than I do at my apartment now. Other than the early gifts, which were more thoughtful and less bloody, my work space has been mostly left alone.
I work on the wall text for the show, writing and rewriting the same paragraph until the words lose all meaning. I organize files that don't need organizing. I clean my desk, water the plants, do anything to avoid going home. By eight o'clock, the gallery is dark except for the security lights and the glow from my desk lamp. The street outside has quieted, the usual foot traffic thinning out as people head to dinner or home or wherever normal people go when they're not hiding from stalkers.
I finally force myself to start closing up. I count the register—we only had two sales today, the Picasso and a small print that Claire sold to a tourist. I file the paperwork, shut down my computer, turn off the lights one by one.
The gallery looks different at night. The artwork casts strange shadows on the walls, and the street lights filtering through the windows create pools of buttery light on the concrete floor. Every sound seems amplified—the hum of the refrigerator in the back room, the distant wail of a siren, my own footsteps echoing in the empty space.
I'm being paranoid. But I can't shake the feeling that I'm not alone, that someone is watching me even now.
I think about Daniel, his face destroyed because he kissed me. About Richard Maxwell, now missing a hand because he grabbed me. About the message:You're mine.
What kind of person does that? What kind of monster hurts people for the crime of touching someone they've decided belongs to them?
I grab my coat from the back office and fish my keys out of the bag. My hands are shaking slightly as I set the alarm and then slip through the front door, pulling it closed behind me.
The street is quiet. There's a car parked across the street, but I can't see if anyone's inside. A man walking a dog half a block away. The usual urban landscape feels threatening, and I feel my stomach clench with apprehension. I never used to feel afraid like this. Like someone was in the shadows, watching and waiting.
I'm fumbling with my keys, trying to get the right one in the lock, when a voice speaks from the shadows to my left, deep and rich with a Russian accent that I recognize.
