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Chapter Twenty-Eight

CALLIE

My body still aches from my night with Knox. It’s almost like I can still feel him, but even that delightful sensation isn’t enough to lighten my mood. The coffee is bitter against my tongue as I stare down at the rental contract spread across Mom’s kitchen table. The numbers blur together—first month’s rent, the security deposit. Anxiety flutters in my chest with each line I read, every clause making dread pool inside of me.

That’s almost everything I’ve managed to save since I’ve been back. Tips have been plentiful, but there are still balances on both my credit cards. The pen hovers over the signature line, my hand trembling slightly. I’m twenty-eight years old, I can’t live with my parents forever. I don’t know why I’m hesitating, but something gnaws at my gut, a familiar instinct that’s saved me more times than I can count. The same feeling I had right before I walked into Theo’s gallery opening and saw my stolen paintings hanging on those pristine white walls.

Something isn’t right, and I’m thinking three men are the reason I can’t bring myself to sign the rental agreement. We haven’t discussed me moving in, but a year-long lease is too much. We’re dating. We’re happy. Eventually, we’ll move in together, and this commitment would essentially send the message that I don’t want to. And god, do I want to. I’ve never wanted anything more than to be with the guys permanently.

Three sharp pings slice through the morning quiet as my phone erupts with notifications. The pen slips from my fingers, clattering onto the table.

MARISSA

Saw this article about you, babe. So awful! What are you up to these days? Still painting?

My stomach drops as I click the link she sent. The headline screams across my phone screen in bold, unforgiving letters: Local Artist Exposes Former Assistant’s Elaborate Theft Scheme.

Former assistant? The words taste like poison in my mouth. I was never his goddamn assistant. We were dating. I had my own job, but they make it sound like he gave me everything.

The second message hits like a sledgehammer to the ribs.

DIANA

Callie, I am so disappointed in you. I never would have expected this from someone I called a friend. How could you steal from Theo like that? He trusted you. We all did. Theo is a good man.

The lump in my throat grows until I can barely swallow. Diana and Marissa were supposed to be my friends. We were never close like I am with Lily and Aspen, but we hung out all the time. Drank together. Shopped together. But they were Theo’s friends first. Every single person I met knew him before me. I was simply an interloper.

My hands shake as I open the third message, from a number I don’t recognize.

UNKNOWN

You still look so pretty first thing in the morning, Callie. That little house of your mom’s has such big windows.

The phone slips from my numb fingers, crashing onto the kitchen table. I shoot upright, chair scraping against the floor, heart thrashing like a trapped bird.

I sprint to the front porch, ripping the door open, bare feet slapping against the worn wooden boards as I come to a stop at the stairs. I scan the tree line, searching for movement, for a reflection of a camera lens, for any sign that someone’s watching. The morning is warm, but a chill sinks into my bones. A sick certainty that Theo is out there somewhere. His name burns in my chest like acid.

The road is empty, peaceful. The neighbor waters her petunias next door, completely oblivious to my panic. A cardinal chirps from the old oak tree Dad planted when I was born. Nothing is out of place, but my skin crawls, neck prickling with awareness of someone watching me.

Gut roiling with paranoia and anxiety, I force myself back inside, snatching my phone from the table with trembling fingers. The unknown number sent a link. I hesitate before clicking it. What if it’s a scam? But the other message was too personal to be a scammer. That’s wishful thinking. This is Theo or someone he hired. The article loads slowly, each paragraph a fresh knife in my back.

Sources close to rising star Theodore Martin reveal a disturbing pattern of manipulation and theft by his former companion, Callie Mae Harrison. The small-town bartender allegedly seduced the talented artist before systematically stealing his work and attempting to pass it off as her own.

My vision blurs. There’s a photo of me behind the bar at Velvet, the place I worked at in NYC. I’m pouring liquor straight from a bottle into the owner’s mouth because he asked me to, but the picture makes me look wild, reckless. Exactly the kind of girl who’d steal from a nice, talented boy from Connecticut.

Another picture shows me standing behind Theo as he paints, my hand on his shoulder. The caption reads: Harrison often positioned herself as Martin’s muse and collaborator, but sources say she was really studying his techniques to later replicate them.

Muse. I want to throw the phone across the room. I was never his muse. I was the one creating while he took credit, the one bleeding onto canvases while he schmoozed with gallery owners and collectors.

The article paints me as everything I hate. A desperate small-town girl who saw opportunity and grabbed it with greedy hands. A fraud. A fake. Someone so pathetic she had to steal talent because she had none of her own. The comments are worse, and one of them drains the oxygen from my lungs.

This chick has a history of being a horrible human. Check out this video.

Bile rises in my throat. I don’t even have to click it to know what it is. My hands are shaking so violently I can barely hold the phone. I screenshot everything. The article, the threatening text, Marissa and Diana’s disappointed messages. My lawyer will want to see all of this when I meet him this afternoon.

Breathe, I tell myself, but the air is too thin. I can’t get enough. My lungs ache, like I’m drowning in slow motion. My phone beeps again, and terror shoots through my chest like electricity. But it’s just my alarm. I need to leave for the school in ten minutes. How am I supposed to teach these kids with this hanging over my head? Who do I think I am? Teaching art to kids who still believe in magic, who see possibility in every blank canvas while I’m here, branded as an art thief. When news of this gets around Big Ridge⁠—

Stop. I can’t think about that. These people know me. They’ve seen my art for years. They’ll know Theo is lying. But what if they all take his side? A vicious voice hisses in the back of my mind. Theo can charm dirt. Who’s to say he won’t convince everyone I know that I’m a liar? Shaking my head, I block out that voice, the thoughts, the paranoia. The only thing I can worry about today is teaching the kids.