Me:Sounds good.
Grumbling, I tossed my bowl in the sink and moved to the front room, throwing myself into my oversized armchair like a dramatic damsel. Bill trotted after me. Ten minutes in, and already this was un-survivable.
“Chill out, Sybil,” I scolded myself again.
What on earth was more important than replying to me?
I picked at my sweatshirt sleeve, turning on my latest audiobook from the app. It began playing through the speakers in the room. I tried to fall into the book, but found my thoughts drifting off every minute or so.
I replayed the same chapter over again.
My phone dinged.
CHAPTER 12
Nash
Halfway to work, my phone vibrated in my pocket.
I smirked, knowing—hoping in my gut—that it was the neighbor. I pulled the phone out of my wool pants.
The weather was cooler today than it had been. I’d switched to a heavier wool suit, but rolled the sleeves to keep it casual—and never a tie. I was not much of a tie man unless it was for an auction event.
Looking at the screen, I didn’t recognize the number, but I recognized the black and white dog in the photo. Bill was licking a metal bowl on a worn wooden floor in what looked like a very vintage New York kitchen.
Many of the townhomes on our block were Gatsby era of New York. They had beautifully preserved details and amazing glasswork. From the small bits I couldgather from the photo, I could tell hers was one of them.
Her bare feet, toes painted black, were peeking up from the bottom of the image. They were adorable. Every detail about her was like a drop of water in the desert, and I was thirsty for it.
Over the past few weeks, I’d wanted nothing more than to see her face again. I begged my mind to hold fast to every detail allowed in our brief meetings, but I still felt them hopelessly slipping away.
It was as though the universe had sensed that by Wednesday of this week. Bee ceremoniously entered my office and dropped a file of images on my desk with a slap and a smirk.
She’d used her somewhat shady contacts to help gather all the information for PERL’s socials and news coverage, compiling a folder of repeat attendees and faces. Bee had found at least twenty constants, and my mysterious neighbor was one of them.
I soaked in each image, studying her every minor detail, cataloging every expression on her face. She always tucked herself back in the room, most images often grainy or cut off. It soothed my curiosity about her, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy it.
I needed to see her again, and in person.
Bee and I worked tirelessly to match faces to names, but hers remained a mystery. I hadn’t been able to locate a social media account. Being as shy as she was, it made sense that maybe she didn’t have one, but it was a red flag in our PERL hunt.
From what I could tell, she’d never missed an event, at leastnot as far back as media coverage provided. She didn’t particularly seem too happy to be there, or even happy to be around people at all, so why go? What was her drive?
Last night I’d stood in my gallery withBlue, sipping a bourbon. Studying it for what felt the hundredth time, I couldn’t help but wonder if my coy little neighbor couldbePERL. She wasn’t the person I’d envisioned being the artist, but it was possible the piece fit.
Maybe I’d figured wrong. Maybe the person we were looking for wasn’t a bold and eccentric individual or group, but a shy shut-in avoiding attention. Introverts could be more creative than most. I hadn’t given them the credit owed.
But this girl, I couldn’t see how she’d manage it. There had to be a larger network helping her. If so, could I uncover it, and did I want to? My goal was never to expose the identity of the artist; I just wanted to know for my own sake—it was a game to me.
My business was buying and selling art, so exposing the identity of PERL only stood to harm my position, not improve it. If I exposed this person, it’d kill the entire brand and the magic. And if PERL were this woman, the last thing I wanted was to destroy her life, not even a little.
I wanted to do the exact opposite.
Her involvement needed to be discovered, but I had to play this right. I couldn’t scare her off. Having already stolen the art, I’d put myself in a precarious situation of having to lie about my intentions. Of course, I wanted to know her for who she was, but I risked her reaction if she ever found out what I’d done.
Another problem was figuring out what tormented her. It was obvious something held her back, scared her, and made her nervous. What had caused that and why?
My mother suffered for years with anxiety and depression. I recognized it on this woman’s face, too. We all knew what that struggle looked like, and the silent battle warring inside her head was too familiar to dismiss.
