Liz had never gone to school for art—life had had other plans for her—but if things had turned out differently, it was what she would’ve studied for sure. Not the means of creating it. She didn’t consider herself to be talented in that way. But the mediums and movement, the artists and their expressions...those fascinated her. She’d read hundreds of books. Spent countless sleepless nights combing through them. So, while she might not be a formal expert, she was at the very least an extremely well-read amateur.
Frowning, she moved from the first painting to a second and gave it a quick once-over. The scenery was similar to that of the first, though more of a close-up. Like someone had zoomed in to a small section of the first to showcase the details. The mountain peak wasn’t visible, but a bird could be seen on a tree branch, and rock sharply parted the river. Likely done by the same artist. Was the paint the same? Liz felt compelled to find out.
When she reached out this time, it was with far less hesitation and only a cursory glance around. Sure enough, it had the same texture. Not quite right. Not quite smooth enough.
“So weird,” she muttered, then blew out a breath, wondering why it was stressing her out so much.
The artist probably had some kind of special mixing technique. Or added some secret ingredient to the paint to make it feel a certain way. She’d read about all kinds of unconventional things, and God knew plenty of the stuff she carried in her shop was unique. That was just art.
Which is what you love about it.
“Maybe I’ve finally cracked,” she said aloud to the empty store. “I mean, really? The paint feels funny?”
She definitely had more important things to worry about. With a headshake, she stepped away from both pieces and turned back to the cash register. Cashing it out and storing the money from the day’s sales was one of the last things on her to-do list. Then she could get back to the part of her day that she loved infinitely more than she loved her job. And that was saying something. Because she really did love running Liz’s Lovely Things.
Her eyes sought and found the one non-artsy picture she kept in her little store. It was a framed shot of her eight-year-old daughter with eyes closed, tongue out and a ladybug headband askew on her head. It was Liz’s favorite. It perfectly captured the zany essence of her kid. Teegan would be in the apartment upstairs now, bouncing on her heels as she counted down the seconds until Liz came up, too. Driving the sitter crazy, probably.
With an affectionate smile, Liz turned away from the picture to jab her finger against the computerized register to punch in the closing code. The machine came to life with a tick-tick-ding, then began to automatically reconcile the internal receipt totals. Liz snorted as the little shop filled with the noise of it.
Even though it was the same every night, she always wondered why the people who created such an efficient piece of equipment hadn’t found a way to get rid of the old-fashioned sounds. As she grabbed the broom and started her quick sweep of the hardwood floors, she considered—not for the first time—whether or not the designers had left the noisiness that way on purpose. Some kind of nostalgic throwback. Then, as if to emphasize—or maybe mock—her thoughts, the cash register let out a weird groan. A crack followed the groan, and Liz sensed imminent disaster.
“Oh, you are so not going to break down right now,” she called out from across the room.
But as she set down the broom and moved toward the register, she saw that the strange sounds weren’t coming from the register at all. The machine had finished its cycle already and sat slightly ajar, waiting for her to pull out the tray and lock the money in the safe.
Liz frowned. She stepped nearer again. Then realized her mistake. The door to the storage room—which had its own exterior entry on the other side—hung open, its lock dangling uselessly to the side. Panic hit Liz hard, and she tried to turn and run. But it was too late. A sharp point pressed to her throat, and a gravelly male voice filled her ear.
“Move more than an inch,” he said, “and I’ll put a nice little hole in your jugular.”
Liz let out the smallest, shakiest breath. “Just take whatever you want.”
“Good choice,” replied her assailant. “Where is it?”
“Right there. The register’s open. Take it all. Please.”
There was a pause. “The money? I don’t want the money.”
The statement intensified Liz’s fear. “You don’t?”
“Where’re the damn Heigles?”
“What?”
The knife pushed in a little hard. “The Heigles? Which ones are they?”
“I don’t know!” Liz gasped.
“I know he brings them to you.”
Him.
Did the knife-wielder mean Garibaldi? Did he mean those paintings? After a heartbeat of consideration, she decided she didn’t care.
“There,” she said, lifting her finger just fractionally.
The blade eased. “Where?”
“The one with the river.”
The knife dropped off completely, and Liz found herself fighting a need to sag down and close her eyes. And she knew she couldn’t. She made herself watch as the man abandoned his hold on her, and she tried to commit every detail to memory.
There was the way he shuffled a little, favoring his right foot. How that shuffle masked his height and gave the impression that he was so much shorter than he was.
There was the fact that even though his face was covered by a ski mask, she could see a mottled mark on one eyelid. Maybe a bruise, maybe a birthmark.
She saw his jeans, and how dirt permeated the denim—not just near the bottom, but all over.
But when he stepped up to the painting, those observations kind of slipped away. Because he lifted his hand and touched it, just like she’d done minutes earlier. And he seemed...satisfied.
Fear gave way for a second. Curiosity took its place. Liz genuinely wanted to know what it was that he felt. What it was that made him nod, ever so slightly.
But when he angled his gaze back in her direction, renewed fear sliced through her. And his words turned the fear into terror.
“You have a daughter,” he said.
A whimper threatened. “Please. Take the painting. Take them all. And the money.”
“Believe me. I’d like to.” An unpleasant hunger laced his tone.
“Do it.”
“Not what I came for, unfortunately.” He stepped back again, his eyes running over Liz.
Panic hit her. “Don’t—”
He cut her off with a dark chuckle. “No. Not that, either. But consider this a warning. For you and your kid. You’re going to want to call the cops. You’re going to want to run to someone and tell them I was here. But I guarantee you that doing either will result in bad things happening to the both of you.”
He gave another head-to-toe stare, his expression so cold that Liz had no doubt he was telling the truth.
Bad things.
Just vague enough to be even more terrifying than the man’s presence.
“Do we have an understanding?” he asked.
Liz managed a nod. “Yes.”
“Good.”
He at last turned away and limped out at a jog. Liz started to draw in a semi-relieved breath, but as he disappeared through the storage door, her daughter’s laugh echoed from the same direction.