Page 63

Ryan climbs out of the car, eyes locked on the gallery. A man ahead fast-walks to the door and goes inside. An early customer or employee of the gallery, presumably.

Ryan walks to the front window, which displays several pieces. An oil painting of a green river viewed through green leaves of a forest. A sculpture of a primitive woman. A ceramic bowl. But it’s the sketch—in pencil and in a familiar style—that lodges a lump in his throat. It’s of a couple, young lovers, running to a parked car on a secluded knoll, laughing to escape a heavy rain.

He braces himself to go in. But then thinks maybe he should wait until the customer leaves. Ryan’s arrival might cause a scene.

He lingers outside, debating what to do. Then something unsettling happens. A hand, one covered with tattoos, appears through the blinds covering the small window on the gallery’s door. It turns a sign from open to closed. He stares at the sign: FERME.

Ryan thinks about the man he saw enter the gallery. He walked in with purpose. There was something familiar about the gait. Ryan’s mind flashes to the image of the man on the English CCTV. The one carrying an axe.

Without hesitation, he charges inside. The door isn’t locked. It’s one of those locks that requires a key even from the inside.

A bell jangles when it opens. A small hallway leads to the main area of the gallery.

There, his heart free-falls. It isn’t a grisly scene with the man with the axe. She’s standing behind a counter. Looking radiant.

She’s frozen staring back at him.

The silence holds for what feels like a lifetime.

“Dodge?” Her tone is threaded with hope and disbelief. And something else, he realizes: fear.

That’s confirmed when a tear rolls down her cheek and she mouths a single word to him.

Run.