—
I don’t have to wait long for the third bad thing, proving me right. But I can’t tell Wyatt about it, due to the nature of the bad thing.
Two days later, while I’m working, I lose time again.
When I regain consciousness, I see a blood-filled syringe from my conservation kit sticking out of the crook of my elbow. It’s still embedded in my vein, while the painting is uncovered behind me.
“Oh, Tilly…my word!” Shelby stands in the open doorway of my studio, one hand pressed to her chest, the other gripping the side of the doorframe. Her knees quake inside her slacks, as evidenced by the fabric quivering, like the ground is vibrating under her feet.
I stare at Shelby, who stares at me and then my arm. I am unsure how to answer. The fogginess remains, and I’m momentarily paralyzed by the conflicting emergencies.
I remove the syringe. Drop it into the trash bin. It clangs against the bottom, and Shelby’s eyes go to the bin. Then I stand, too quickly, and am dizzy. Pushing through it, I step in front of my workbench and the painting on it.
“Everything’s fine.” I try to infuse calm confidence into my tone. I’m panicky, though, my heart hammering inside my chest. I press my fingers into the spot in my elbow where a tiny pinprick of blood blossoms. I force a smile, cock my head with what I hope appears like mild, unconcerned curiosity. “How did you get in here, Shelby?”
The door requires a code to open it. A code only I know. Also, I’m sure I locked it behind me—I always do.
“I…someone was crying,” Shelby says in a breathy tone. She’s pale. I should offer her a chair but am hesitant to leave my position in front of the painting. “I called out your name but was worried something was the matter and you couldn’t hear me.”
She looks over my shoulder, toward the painting. I can’t have that.
“How bizarre. Well, it wasn’t me. The crying,” I reply. Then, “Would you mind closing the door? The climate in here is finicky.”
The moment it takes Shelby to turn and grasp the door’s handle gives me enough time to retrieve the cover, which is on the floor near the workbench. I quickly set the top corners onto the canvas and then tug the sheet down to cover the rest. There, both emergencies managed. Now for damage control.
“Listen, Shelby, I can explain, but…why don’t you take a seat?” I pull out the desk’s chair. Then I sit on the stool across from her.
“Why were you crying?” she asks. Her hands twist in her lap. “Is everything all right?”
“I wasn’t crying. I’m not sure what you heard.”
“No, it was you, Tilly. And then I heard something else.” She swallows reflexively. She’s nervous. NowI’mnervous.
“What was it?” I ask.Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, I hear in the room. Is that my heartbeat, echoing beyond my chest?
“Your voice was raised, and it sounded like you were arguing with someone. You kept saying, ‘No,you can’t have this, you can’t have her!’ ”
Something goes cold in my center. I have no memory of any of this.
“But when I got up here, the door was open and…” Shelby wraps tightly clasped hands around her crossed knees. The diamond wedding ring she still wears glimmers under the lights of the studio, her fingers whitening with her grip.
“Andyou saw me with the syringe.” I keep my voice smooth, chuckling softly, and she looks at me in surprise. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I can only imagine how confusing this is. But I was drawing blood as part of the conservation.”
I point to the small contraption on the desk—gleaming silver, withthe GIA emblem on its side and an eyepiece on the top. The portable 3-D digital microscope, which I borrowed from the lab when I visited Dale. It looks similar, at least in size and shape, to an old-fashioned plastic kaleidoscope. “I need to do a biological sample comparison, with the microscope.”
I need to do no such thing, but it’s the first excuse I come up with.
“I can’t give you any details about the painting, but I will tell you this,” I continue. “The artist used unconventional materials in the art, blood being one of them.”
“Oh!” Shelby exhales forcefully, her eyes wide. “How macabre.”
I nod.You have no idea.“I’m sure it was distressing for you, coming up and finding me doing a blood draw,” I say. “I’m so sorry, I thought the door was locked.”
Why wasn’t the damn door locked?
“Nothing is wrong, I promise you.” I smile, pausing a moment before adding, “I was also listening to a true-crime podcast, which may be what you heard? It’s a guilty pleasure when I’m working.”
I hate true-crime podcasts and require total silence in my studio, but Shelby likely doesn’t know either thing to be true or not.
