I’m on the brink of a panic attack, and if I don’t get out of here now, things will go from bad to worse. “I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “I must be coming down with something.” I can feel beads of sweat on my forehead, the flush of my cheeks.
“Go then,” she says. “But you should know, I’m very pleased. We’ve sold nearly everything.”
6
The next morning, I wake up to find a package at my doorstep. After tearing the wrapping off, I stare at it, my chest tight with horror.The Muse.And a note from Isabella:Congratulations, darling, on a great success of a show. Keep this. You deserve it.
Seizing the painting, I run to my studio and shove it in the corner, covering it with a piece of sheer fabric. I step back from it, panting, as if it were alive. The muse’s eyes seem to be staring at me through the fabric.
With a burst of panic, I tear off the sheer fabric. Blink fast, confused. The eyes are closed, as they have been since I painted over them.Am I losing my mind?
The front door opens, and after a momentary flutter of anxiety I am relieved to find Christine entering with a large suitcase.
“I’m so happy to see you,” I tell her, throwing my arms around her. It feels like we haven’t had a real conversation in weeks.
“You too,” she says, but she’s not meeting my eyes.
I glance at the suitcase. “Getting back from somewhere?”
“Uh, no. I actually wanted to talk to you about that.” She hesitates. “I’m moving in with Liam. I need to get the rest of my stuff.” She throws a glance at the open doorway of herroom, and I notice for the first time that it’s nearly empty. I have been so consumed by the gallery show that I didn’t realize that Christine had been moving out.
“Oh. To Brooklyn?”
“No,” she says, giving me an apologetic wince. “He’s got an eight-month shoot in San Francisco.” A wave of utter sadness sweeps through me. Christine is my last real friend, and I thought, stupidly, naively, that she’d be here forever.
I try to make my voice cheerful. “Okay, wow—that’s great, I mean. I’m happy for you.”
“I promise I’ll visit,” she says, wrapping me in a hug. I squeeze her tight, trying to hold back my tears.
I spend the rest of the day helping Christine pack, and early the next morning, alone in our apartment, I wake in a cold sweat and look at my phone: 5:00 a.m. There’s a sound—a knocking—that must have woken me. I sit upright in bed, heart racing, and look around the room. What was that? Movement in the shadows?
But no, it’s nothing. Just a trick of the light.
With an exhale, I stare up at the ceiling, going over the conversation I had with Brooks.Why did you decide to have her eyes closed, rather than open like they were in the original?
Like the original.
The original.
It had turned my blood cold.He knew.This man, this stranger, had come to the gallery to ... what? To intimidate me?
I must drift off again because the next time I am startled from sleep, the sun is bright outside my window.
In my studio, I confront the painting. I remember the final bright white highlights I’d applied, how I’d marveled thatThe Musecould have come from not one, but two artists, Ivan and me.
Yet now. Now darker feelings creep in: disgust, shame, regret.It is a lie,a voice whispers.Your whole career is a lie.
I’m staring at it when my phone rings—a terrible blare. “Hello?”
Breathing on the other end. A man’s voice: “Hannah, I’m not done getting to know you.” I go still with fear. It’s Brooks.
“Brooks,” I say. “How did you get my number?”
“Well, I happen to know a few things about you. The first being that you got that painting from an estate sale in the West Village in October of last year and passed it off as your own.”
How could he possibly know?“What do you want?”
“I want you to give me that painting and stop profiting off work that doesn’t belong to you.” There is a tautness to his voice that sounds like a loaded spring.
