Izzy smiled a little, watching it hit her exactly the way it had hit her the first time.
“I told you,” she said. “It’s incredible.”
“Incredible?” Caitlin let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “This isn’t incredible—this is?—”
She broke off, already moving toward the nearest canvas. Her hand hovered short of touching it.
“This is museum-level,” she said quietly. “This isn’t hobby work. This isn’t local gallery work. This is?—”
She leaned in slightly.
“Who is this?”
Izzy stepped closer.
“C. Vale,” she said.
Caitlin straightened.
“C. Vale,” she repeated. “Who is C. Vale?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
Caitlin moved to the next piece. Then the next. Faster now. Eyes sharper. Mind working.
“The composition…” she murmured. “The restraint, the control?—”
She paused, tilting her head.
“This feels like Thorne,” she said slowly. “Or someone trained like him.”
Izzy nodded. “I thought so too. But it’s not.”
Caitlin glanced back at her. “You checked?”
“I checked.”
Caitlin turned back to the work, even more focused now.
“Then who the hell is she?”
She moved deeper into the room, her voice dropping again, reverent.
“Iz… this isn’t just good,” she said. “This is… a body of work.”
She eased back a step, gaze sweeping the room.
“This is someone’s life.”
Izzy’s attention drifted past the paintings. That was Caitlin’s world.
Instead, she moved toward the back of the room. The small bed tucked against the wall. The quilt faded, one corner turned down like someone had left it that way and never come back to fix it.
It didn’t look staged. It looked… abandoned.
Izzy hesitated. Then reached down and lifted the pillow.
Something slid. Paper. Soft. Worn.
