handed the heavy black card back to

urse. The satisfying click of the cl

d floor. She grabbed Walter Chandler's arm and dragged him t

tight band around her ribs loose

e painting bac

, ready to walk o

Or should I s

voice came fr

e name she used when she dealt with art suppliers and obscure gallery owner

ed aroun

walked toward her. His expression was

"I am Iaan Glass. The curator here. You attended our pre-openi

n of an inch. He was an old acquaint

olite nod. "Mr. Glass.

He looked at the empty space

ou are not as ruthless as you appear." He poin

er her bare ring finger, a

. I am glad they got what

d at her face, really looked a

t conflict. I am sorry you

semi-private seating area

sit for a

h leather chair. Iaan poured a glass of wat

throat. She looked up and her eyes locked ont

ble," she murmured, the words slip

great eye. That is a pi

nd the glass. The water rippled

o remain perfectly still. She s

artist. No one know

rd, resting his e

. They sell on their own terms, through a blind tru

her ears. She had no idea her

out them?" she asked,

ng. His expression turned

s. They paint solitude. They paint the quiet di

was not sadness, but a painful, shocking sense of being seen. For three years, she had lived in a penthouse

e had to clench her fists tightly un

not ask why she looked

going through something. I do not mean to pry

enuine concern in his e

you,

for dinner. Would you care to join me? We

ith another man since she married Elek. Her

k this morning. She remembered his

ter glass down

ld lov