I tighten my grip on the phone. “I—can’t do that.” That painting is worth a lot of money. I’m not letting this stranger threaten me into giving it up. “If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll call the police.”
A deep, hollow laugh. “And what will you tell them?” he says. “If you think that your little threats will make me go away, you are more naive than I thought.”
“Look,” I reason with him, “you have no proof that I did anything wrong, and even if you did, the original artist is dead, and—and I’m doing him a favor. No one would have seen it if I hadn’t finished it.”
There’s anger in his voice now. “You stole that painting. And I do have proof.” My phone buzzes with a text message, a picture from a security camera, and I gasp. It’s me exiting the estate sale, painting in hand. It must have been taken from a Ring doorbell camera. The painting is perfectly visible, too,and looks just like my final rendering ofThe Muse. His story plus this image, and my reputation could be ruined.
“H-how did you get that?” My brain is spinning, trying to connect the pieces. Did Brooks know Maude? Was he some sort of stalker? Hacker? How had he gotten the security footage?
“Luckily, we updated the system last year. It saves to a private server automatically.”
We?My fingers feel numb, and I’m still too shocked to make the connection. “What can I do to get you to leave me alone?” I ask through my clenched teeth.
“My father painted that painting. I want it back,” he says. “And keep my mother out of this.”
So Maude is his mother?But I still have more questions. “Where were you last year at the estate sale? The painting was just sitting there, no one wanted it. Tell me honestly: You just want it for the money.” I can’t stand the thought of giving this guy a penny. “I won’t give you the painting.”
“It’s about respect for my father.” He takes a breath, and when he speaks again, he is more composed. “Tomorrow. Seven thirty a.m. Jackson Square. Bring the painting, or I will send this picture to my friend atThe New Yorker. He loves a good exposé.” Brooks hangs up the phone, and I collapse onto the floor, my body shivering uncontrollably.
He’s going to tell the press. I’ll be exposed as a liar. No one will buy my paintings again.
I stare at it, and for a moment the woman in the painting looks like me. It is haunting me, just like it did Maude for all those years.
I must get rid of it, but I will not give it to that asshole. Besides, who knows what he’ll do to me if I meet him alone. That is when I come up with a better idea: I’ll go to the one person who has the power to keep him quiet.
7
That night I leave my apartment withThe Musein my bag and walk toward the West Village. I look over my shoulder before crossing the street, making sure no one is following me. A paranoid thought: He knew my number. What if Brooks knows where I live? What if he is following me right now?
Glancing at everyone I pass, I walk with purpose. Maude seemed like a kind, rational woman. The painting is now worth a quarter of a million dollars. I’ll buy her silence with it and persuade her to make her son leave me alone.
The temperature has dropped, an icy breeze whipping the scarf around my neck. I’m exhausted and wired at the same time. I didn’t sleep much the night of the gallery show or in the days leading up to it, and I certainly won’t be able to sleep until I know that Brooks is gone for good.
I’m turning onto the street where Maude lives when I sense movement in the shadows. Is it Brooks? I peer into the dark, straining my eyes, but see nothing.
It occurs to me that I am alone and exposed. It is dark out, and even the unhoused have found shelter under eaves or in other parts of the city. A noise draws my attention as dried leaves skitter over the sidewalk. An animal. A rat or stray cat. I continue in the direction of the widow’s home, but the streetsintersect at an angle, and I pause at the end of the street, confused. I look down at my phone. Have I missed my turn?
Then a sound from behind. A footstep?
There’s a drop of water on my cheek, then another. It’s starting to rain. I walk faster, shielding the painting. The footsteps pick up pace. In another twenty feet, I stop abruptly, and the footsteps stop, too.
Fear overtakes me, the sensation of someone watching me. Pausing under a streetlamp, I remain very still and listen closely in the dark for the footsteps, and when I turn, a streak of black makes me scream. My heart lurches into my throat. It’s not Brooks, though. It’s just a black cat scurrying behind a car.
Relieved, I shake my head and let out a small laugh.Get it together, Hannah,I tell myself.Find Maude, return the painting, and then you can get some much-needed sleep.
Ten minutes later, I finally locate the townhome. I make my way up the steps and stand under the eaves, shivering. Taking a deep breath, I reach to ring the doorbell, but then pause. It’s ten o’clock, and my phone is about to die at any moment. I should come back tomorrow at a more reasonable hour.
I glance at the black beady eye of the Ring security camera next to the door and wonder whether Brooks can see me. Just in case, I turn my face away.
I’m retreating down the steps when the door opens behind me. “Hannah? Is that you?” I look up at her, unsettled.How much had Brooks told her?
Maude stands at the top of the stairs in a nightgown, her gray hair up in curlers. She adjusts her glasses and cranes her neck out the door. “What are you doing out there in the dark? And, oh dear, you’re all wet. Come in, won’t you, before you catch a cold.”
8
Could I have a glass of water?” I ask once we’ve settled in the living room. My throat has gone dry, and all the ideas I had in my apartment about what to say have fled my mind.
“Of course you can, honey.”
