Chapter 4 - The Gallery of Echoes
The rain returned by evening, turning the asphalt outside the studio into a dark mirror reflecting the neon signs of the diner across the street.
Claire didn't go home. She stayed at the workbench under the single adjustable halogen lamp, the smell of turpentine stinging her eyes as she worked a stiff filbert brush across the salt marsh canvas. The water in the painting was dark, nearly black, reflecting a sky that had lost its light.
The bell above the door jingled.
She didn't turn around. "Maya, I told you, I'm not signing the settlement. Alvarez found out about the—"
"It's not Maya."
Claire’s hand slipped, leaving a long, smeary streak of cobalt blue across the gray reeds of her painting.
Nathan stood just inside the threshold. He wasn't wearing his gray wool coat anymore. He wore an old leather jacket she remembered from their first year of marriage, his hair damp from the drizzle, his eyes glittering with an erratic, restless energy that Claire knew better than her own reflection.
"You changed the locks," Nathan said, looking around the studio with a slow, sweeping motion. "Really, Claire? Padlocks on a historic facade? You think the historical commission won't fine you for that?"
"Get out, Nathan."
"We're still married for six more days," he said, stepping further into the room. He walked toward her canvas, his shoes clicking loudly on the bare floorboards. "Is this what you've been doing all week? Playing with paints while I'm out there trying to keep us from going under?"
"You aren't keeping us anywhere. You're sinking us."
Nathan stopped. He turned his head sharply, a small twitch working at the corner of his left eye. "What did you say?"
"I saw the ledgers, Nathan. I saw the bridge loans. I know you used my grandmother's estate to back your debts on the commercial block."
For a second, the mask of charming, aggrieved husband vanished entirely. The skin around Nathan’s mouth went white, his nostrils flaring as he took another step toward the workbench.
"You shouldn't have been looking at those."
"They were mailed to me."
"By who?" Nathan’s voice rose, losing its carefully cultivated smoothness, turning sharp and thin. "Was it Julian? Did my dear, perfect cousin buy you off with a few corporate files?"
Claire stood up, putting the heavy wooden easel between them. "He didn't buy me off. He told me the truth."
"The truth?" Nathan let out a harsh, barking laugh that had no humor in it. "Julian doesn't know the meaning of the word. You think he's playing the white knight? You think he cares about your little painting studio?" Nathan gestured wildly at the canvas. "To people like him, we're insects on a windshield. He's using you to get to my father's board seats, Claire. He wants the family trust back, and he's using a bitter ex-wife to do his dirty work."
Claire felt a cold draft sweep through the room from the back door, but her skin burned. "He showed me the forged signatures, Nathan. He showed me where you signed my name."
"Because I had to!" Nathan shouted, the sound bouncing off the high tin ceiling. He lunged forward, his hands gripping the edge of the workbench so hard his knuckles turned yellow. "If I hadn't secured that line of credit, the whole company would have collapsed six months ago! You would have lost the house anyway! Everything we built—"
"We didn't build anything," Claire said, her voice dropping so low Nathan had to lean across the table to hear it. "You built a house of cards, and you expected me to be the foundation when it fell."
Nathan stared at her, his chest heaving under the old leather jacket. The anger in his eyes flickered, replaced for a terrifying second by something desperate and small.
He reached out across the table, his fingers brushing her wrist.
"Claire. Listen to me. Don't trust him. Whatever Julian promised you—whatever he said he's going to do for you—he's lying. He destroys everything he touches."
Before Claire could pull her arm away, the bell above the door chimed again.
Neither of them had heard footsteps on the sidewalk outside.
May you like
Julian Vance stood in the doorway, his charcoal coat buttoned to the throat, holding a black umbrella that he didn't bother to close as he stepped inside.
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