Page 87 of Captive Ruin

It shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t come as a shock, either, but it does. I tighten the blanket around myself, swallowing hard. How could I let that man, that destructive abomination into my life? Why didn’t I find my bullets and shoot him, or call the police? God, last night, I thought we actually made some progress.

I must be the stupidest woman in the world to give in to him.

An EMT brings us cups of sweet tea and another blanket for Sierra. Together, we watch the fire trucks pour jets of water through the windows, destroying everything I’ve worked for. My inheritance, going up in smoke. My mother’s favorite picture. The last real tether I have to my parents.

My eyes prickle as I imagine the state of horror the gallery will be once the fire’s put out. Can anything survive this?

“Can I ask a question?” Sierra begins tentatively.

“Sure.” We haven’t got anything else to do.

“Did you… get the insurance done?”

I laugh, a bitter sound. “Yeah. Yesterday. It was a stipulation on Fournier’s paperwork.” And it was one-point-five million of art that wasn’t mine.

“Oh, thank God,” Sierra says on a breath.

I swallow hard. Maybe it wasn’t Serranto after all.

“Isn’t this all a bit suspicious?” I say.

“If it was arson, you mean?”

“Art that appears out of nowhere, just when I need it the most. Sixty percent commission, double the market rate, to encourage me not to think twice. An insurance requirement on the paperwork.” I clench my jaw. “Do you think we’ve been used?”

Sierra frowns. “I don’t know. But insurance is standard for an art loan, right?”

“…Yes…”

“And Bastien Fournier… his name was on everything. Do you know he’s a billionaire? I looked him up.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Do billionaires bother with insurance scams on seven-figure art?”

“I suppose not,” I concede, though it’s not like I know the man.

Yet put like that, it does seem unlikely. Maybe it wasn’t Van Wyk and Fournier setting me up. Maybe it was Serranto, after all.

God, I can’t get my thoughts straight. I feel like I’m hurtling through space at the speed of light while sitting in the back of an ambulance. I’m paranoid and untrusting. Is that any surprise when my gallery is on fire and Van Wyk keeps breaking into my apartment?

And where the hell was he tonight? Why wasn’t he there, when I got back home? Could Van Wyk have been the one to do this? Was he busy breaking into the gallery, setting fire to over a million bucks’ worth of art?

I can’t shake the feeling that it’s fully within his skill set. Maybe Fournier doesn’t need the money, but what about Van Wyk?

My life has gone to fucking pieces since that man entered it.

A group of men approaches us, two uniformed fire department officials leading the way, two police officers loitering behind.

“I’m Fire Marshal Barrett and this is Battalion Chief Graham,” the lead man says. He’s in his forties, tall with thinning hair and a grim expression. “Which of you is Amelia Anderson?”

“I am.”

“Ma’am, we have some questions. Are you able to answer at this time?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Barrett pulls out a notebook and a pencil, old school. “Can you tell me when you last left the premises?”