Page 61

The guys nod.

She smiles like that’s a done deal. “Good. I think we’re ready to eat then. Why don’t you and the boys go first.”

With their approval, I think I could take on the world, so while there are still probing gazes and whispers, I hand out the plastic plates to the guys and breathe a sigh of relief.

I’m not letting anything ruin this goodness.

The art supply store always smells like turpentine and possibility, and finally, finally, the possibilities are within reach. My muse has suddenly woken up, desperate to paint after months of hiatus. I run my fingers along the paint tubes, searching for the perfect shade of cerulean blue. This new piece has been haunting me. Abstract swirls of ocean and storm clouds, a canvas full of emotions. Pictures of what it’ll look like flit through my mind.

It’s always like this when things are good. I can’t even breathe without imagining the exact stroke to use on the bottom left, or the colors to mix to find that perfect shade of sea green. My stomach flutters with excitement. I thought I’d lost this feeling.

I grab a tube, mentally calculating whether I need titanium white when someone calls my name.

“Callie Harrison?”

I freeze. The voice isn’t familiar, but with how long I’ve been gone, that doesn’t mean much. People change. Maybe it’s someone from high school I’ve forgotten? I turn around slowly, plastering on my best fake smile.

The woman standing behind me is probably mid-thirties, dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, wearing designer jeans that definitely didn’t come from any store within fifty miles of here. Her smile is too bright, too practiced.

My hackles rise a little bit at the sight. A knee jerk reaction from my encounters with some of Theo’s fans. They all wore calculated smiles, too. Relax, Callie. “That’s me.” I shift the basket to my other hand, suddenly wishing I’d grabbed a cart instead. “I’m sorry, do we know each other?”

“Oh, we haven’t met.” She extends a manicured hand.

My stomach does a little flip, but I shake her hand anyway. Her grip is firm, professional. “Hi,” I say, not really sure if I need to introduce myself since she already seems to know my name.

“I’m Jessica Chen. I recently moved to the area, and I heard you were an artist back in the day.”

Oof. That stings. “Back in the day, huh?” I force a laugh. “That makes me sound ancient.”

“Oh no, I didn’t mean. . .” She laughs too, but her eyes are sharp, focused. “I heard you had quite the reputation in the city art scene.”

“I think you might have me confused with someone else.” I take a step back, bumping into the paint display. A few tubes rattle. “I’m just a bartender.”

“Really? That’s not what I heard.” The calculation in the way she watches me sets my teeth on edge. “What about that big controversy with Theo Martin? That must have been devastating.”

The paint tube in my other hand slips from my grasp and tumbles into the basket I’m carrying. The blood drains from my face so fast I feel dizzy. “Who the hell are you?” The words come out sharper than I intended, but I don’t care. This woman just crossed a line that was painted in neon fucking red.

“I told you, I’m Jessica.”

That’s not what I meant and she knows it. There’s no way she moved here and happens to know about my stealing, no good, lying ex-boyfriend. I drop my voice to a whisper, but it carries all the venom I can muster. “Nobody in this town knows about Theo. Nobody. So I’m going to ask you one more time: Who are you and what do you want?”

Her practiced smile finally cracks. She glances around the store, making sure we’re still alone among the easels and canvas rolls.

“Okay, look.” She sighs, and suddenly she seems more human, less polished. “I’m a freelance journalist. I’m working on a piece about art theft and fraud in emerging artists’ communities.” She hands me her card, and I take it, numbly staring at the card stock. She’s a journalist. Here to investigate me?

My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. Fraud. Theft? “You’re a fucking reporter?”

“I know how this looks, but if you could answer a few questions about your experience with Theo Martin and the allegations⁠—”

“Allegations?” The word explodes out of me before I can stop it. Several heads turn our way from the front of the store. I lower my voice again, but the fury is still there, simmering beneath the surface. “There are no allegations. That asshole stole my work and passed it off as his own.”

“Listen, I believe you, but the lawsuit claimed you were the one who stole the art.”

Lawsuit? My vision dims. There’s a lawsuit? Theo is suing me? My ribs threaten to crack. Over what? Him stealing my work? He can’t do that, right? My pulse races, and Jessica’s face pinches in concern.

“Are you okay?”

No. Not at all. Not even in the slightest. It feels like my body is being ripped apart. It wasn’t enough for Theo to steal my work, but now he wants to sue me for ownership? I don’t even know any lawyers. My lungs freeze. I can’t breathe. There’s air all around me, and yet, I can’t breathe. I clutch my chest.