I glance at my phone again—still nothing. Our few conversations since that night have felt like I’m speaking to someone underwater. Maya’s voice altered, breathless, oscillating between nervous laughter and weighted silences. When I pushed for details, she merely smiled that new, secretive smile and said, “It’s complicated, that’s all.”
Complicated. That’s become her favorite word.Complicatedhas replaced the Maya who once catalogued every restaurant by cuisine type, emotional resonance, and lighting quality. The Maya who could describe flavors with mathematical precision. Now everything is just... complicated.
I squeeze more crimson onto my palette, adding a touch of burnt umber. The red needs to be darker, richer—like dried blood on concrete. Perfect for the shadow beneath the L tracks in my final piece.
“Focus, Amelia,” I mutter, mixing furiously. The Ellington Gallery opening is three days away. My career hinges on this show.
And now I learn that Adrian Vale—of all people—will have his “chocolates” displayed at the same event. A last-minute addition that Beatrice Ellington gushed about over the phone, calling it “serendipitous cross-medium artistry.”
Serendipitous. Right.
The brush trembles in my hand as I apply the red to my canvas. I’ve never officially met Adrian, but I’ve seen the hollow look in Maya’s eyes and heard the strange mixture of exhilaration and terror in her voice when she mentions his name.
I dip my brush again, trying to steady my hand. My work deserves my full attention, not these spiraling worries. This show could launch me from struggling artist to legitimate name. The investors coming to the opening don’t care about my friend’s unsettling romance—they care about talent and marketability.
But the shade of red still isn’t quite right. Too bright. Too alive.
The Ellington Gallery. Even thinking the name makes my stomach flutter with equal parts excitement and terror. Beatrice Ellington doesn’t just display art—she launches careers. Her eye for emerging talent is legendary, and somehow, miraculously, that eye landed on me six months ago.
“Urban Cosmos speaks to the hidden order within chaos,” she’d said, studying my portfolio with those piercing gray eyes. “Finish the series. I want it for the winter showcase.”
The winter showcase, with its wealthy patrons, critics from every major art publication, and gallery owners scouting for new talent. My golden ticket.
I stare at the blank seventh canvas—the centerpiece that should reveal the constellation pattern binding the entire series together. My sketches for it are brilliant. The mathematics are sound. But every time I lift my brush to begin, something stops me.
The truth is, to complete this piece properly, I need to step fully into the darkness I’ve only been circling. The Chicago I’ve been painting is safe—romantic even in itsgrittiness. But the real pattern, the truth I’ve observed in all my night wanderings, is far more disturbing. The city has teeth. It consumes. It transforms.
“Coward,” I whisper to myself, mixing another shade of midnight blue that I know I won’t use.
Instead, I turn to the sixth canvas. It’s nearly done—a night scene of Lake Shore Drive with skyscrapers whose windows form a subtle pattern of Pegasus for those with eyes to see. A darkness that still contains wonder.
I work mechanically, adding final highlights and perfecting reflections on wet pavement until the last brushstroke falls at exactly 4:17 AM. My back screams in protest as I straighten up, surveying the six completed canvases lined against my wall.
They’re good. They might even be great. But without the seventh—the keystone—they’re just pretty paintings with clever hidden elements.
I stumble to my paint-splattered couch and collapse, too tired to even wipe the cerulean blue from my hands. Two days. I have two days to either find the courage to paint what I really see or display an incomplete vision to the world.
My eyes close. The incomplete canvas waits.
7
GABE
Iselect my outfit carefully. The charcoal three-piece suit from Savile Row hangs pristine in my closet, set apart from the other garments. This isn’t merely clothing—it’s armor, a fabricated identity woven from fine wool and silk.
The shirt must be perfect: crisp white, Egyptian cotton with a subtle herringbone pattern. I fasten mother-of-pearl buttons with steady fingers—the same fingers that wrapped Reynolds’ body last week. I adjust my burgundy tie in the mirror, creating a perfect Windsor knot. The splash of color draws the eye and creates a focal point. Misdirection is an art form.
“Pianist and sommelier, Gabe Dawson,” I murmur, testing the persona. “Fifteen years studying viticulture in Bordeaux and the Napa Valley.”
The vintage cufflinks—platinum with inlaid onyx—belonged to my first special project, a wine collector who thought his cellar’s contents more valuable than human life. His Patek Philippe watch now circles my wrist, itsweight a constant reminder. Nothing wasted. Everything repurposed.
I slip into the waistcoat, breathing in the faint scent of cedar and sandalwood. Adrian and I crafted this character meticulously. My encyclopedic knowledge of wine isn’t fabricated—It’s cultivated. The jazz club owner and the wine expert aren’t separate identities; they’re complementary facets of the same carefully constructed facade.
Tonight at the Ellington Gallery, I’ll be illuminated under crystal chandeliers, discussing tannins and vintages while Adrian’s chocolates delight palates. We’ll circle each other like satellites, never acknowledging our true connection. Two cultured gentlemen appreciating art. No one will glimpse the basement beneath my club where Reynolds stands frozen in eternal judgment.
“The nose is exceptionally complex,” I rehearse. “Notes of black currant and tobacco with a hint of—” I pause, smiling at my reflection, “—something quite rare and unexpected.”
The elegant predator staring back at me shows no trace of last night’s activities. No blood beneath these manicured nails. No splatter on these polished Italian leather shoes. Just refinement. Culture. Sophisticated taste.
