With trembling fingers, I open the portfolio. High-quality photographs slide out—professional lighting, perfect composition. I gasp.
Three figures, preserved in positions that can only be described as sculptural. The first stands witharms outstretched, and skin burnished to a golden hue that catches the light impossibly. The second kneels in supplication, face frozen in a dawning realization. The third reclines on a pedestal, arranged like a classical marble statue, one arm draped dramatically.
I immediately register the technical achievement—the preservation of muscle tone, the positioning that defies gravity, the color variations achieved through different skin treatments.
“This is incredible,” I whisper, and I’m not sure I mean to speak out loud. “The preservation quality, the positioning, the way you’ve maintained their final expressions...”
Gabe studies my face intently. “You’re not horrified?”
“I am. But I’m also...” I touch the photos, tracing the line of one figure’s arm, “fascinated. This is art, Gabe. Terrible, twisted, brilliant art.”
He sits beside me, our shoulders touching. “I spent six months on the standing figure. The balance points required internal structural modifications.”
I nod, understanding the challenge. “You’ve created perfect tension in the composition. They’re positioned to tell a story—hubris, realization, and fall.”
“You see that?” His voice holds wonder.
“Of course I see it. It’s deliberate, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but no one’s ever...” He trails off, looking at me with new eyes.
Gabe slides back into his chair, runs a hand through his hair. “There’s something else you should know.”
His tone shifts, growing more pragmatic as he tells me about Vincent Caruso—a corrupt building inspector who’s sniffing around The Blue Room’s basement. I listen, tracking the details like puzzle pieces fitting together.
“He smelled something,” Gabe explains. “The ventilation system failed after that water main break. Adrian and I patched things, but Caruso’s scheduled a second inspection tomorrow.”
I clutch my coffee mug tighter. “What happens if he finds... them?”
“Everything falls apart.” His voice remains level, but I notice the tension in his shoulders. “My careful work, destroyed. Prison. Or worse.”
The strange calm that’s carried me through the morning wavers. This isn’t just history—this is immediate danger.
“You’re planning something for him, aren’t you?”
Gabe shakes his head. “That’s the problem. I can’t touch him without raising more questions. Too many connections to Reynolds, who’s already missing.” His hands spread open, almost helpless. “But I need to distract him, redirect his attention. Keep my gallery safe.”
I nod, understanding what’s required to maintain this double life—respected business owner by day, avenging artist by night. Two identities balanced on a knife’s edge.
“Amelia.” He kneels before me, taking my hands in his. “Can you accept this? Not just intellectually, but truly? Can you be with someone like me?”
I stare at his hands holding mine, then look past him to the photograph of the preserved councilman with his arm extended in an eternal gesture of speechmaking. Time stretches between us, heavy with possibility and consequence.
“I don’t know,” I finally admit. “I need time to process this. To figure out what it means.”
“Take all the time you need.” His grip loosens slightly.
“But Gabe?” I turn to face him directly. “I’m not callingthe police. Whatever you are, whatever this is... I choose to keep your secret.”
Gabe’s expression shifts to something I’ve never seen before—vulnerability mixed with gratitude. The predatory confidence that first drew me to him peels away for a moment, revealing the man beneath the mask.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
I gather my scattered clothes from the floor, dressing quickly. The photos of hisgallerystill lie open on the desk, golden-hued corpses frozen in eternal poses. I can’t look at them anymore. Not now.
“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t decided if I’m staying.”
My fingers fumble with buttons as I try to reclaim some dignity. The magnitude of what I now know sits heavy on my chest, making each breath feel insufficient. The pattern of my life has suddenly split into before and after this moment.
