Page 23 of Stalker's Toy

December air claws through thin fabric, mingling with diesel fumes from a passing bus.

I count cracks in the sidewalk like rosary beads—fourteen between Charlotte Place and Rathbone Street, thirty-seven skirting Fitzroy Square's wrought iron gates.

Gallery lights bleed through barred windows three blocks ahead.

My stomach acid could etch glass.

Thirty minutes early, but the promise of being paid good money means I can live while I’m here, not just survive.

A tourist couple pauses before Guzman Contemporary's display window, oblivious to the spiderweb crack in the lower right pane from last month's drunken hedge funder.

The woman giggles at a Jeff Koons knockoff,unaware that inside these walls, I'll soon be spread-eagled on some sort of Victorian fainting couch while a man twice my age mixes cadmium red with my dignity.

The gallery door clicks shut behind me, sealing out the din of the evening bustle outside its walls.

Henrik materializes from shadows cast by a Francis Bacon lithograph, his movements fluid as ink spreading across blotting paper.

Five crisp banknotes whisper against my palm before I can utter greeting.

"Safety deposit," he murmurs, thumb brushing my scarred knuckles.

His Swedish accent wraps around consonants like smoke curling round rafters. “Did you forget I said I’d pick you up?”

I clear my throat, “Didn’t forget. Just needed to get some air.”

He shakes his head in what I assume is aggravation and ticks his jaw. “Stubborn one, you are. Follow me.”

My combat boots echo too loud on parquet tiles he probably imported from some dismantled Baltic castle.

“You’ll need to be a better listener, Miss Cohen.” Henrik turns and comes right up on me, his frost-pale fingers hover near my choker's spiked O-ring. "Saint Laurent's Fall 2016 collection? Or clever thrift shop forgery?"

I press trembling thighs together. "Charity shop offBerwick Street. Three quid. You should know I can’t afford anything like Saint Laurent."

A ghost-smile plays across lips that look sculpted from Carrara marble. "Stick with me and you could have anything your heart desires."

His tailored wool coat whispers secrets against my fishnets as he passes. "Come, this way."

We navigate corridors and the air grows thicker with each turn—turpentine and sandalwood incense clotting my throat.

A blackened oak door reveals a circular chamber where fifteen spotlights blaze down on a throne-like armchair.

My pupils constrict against the glare.

Canvases line curved walls like tarot cards fanned by some manic fortune teller—every brushstroke screams of figures trapped in burning rooms, faces melting like Dali clocks.

In the center, a fresh canvas gapes hungry as an open grave.

Henrik's reflection looms behind me in a gilt-framed mirror cracked down the middle.

"They never display these," I whisper, tracing glass fractures over his phantom shoulder.

"Private commissions." His breath scalds my nape. "The sort collectors keep in panic rooms to admire during market crashes."

Cold hands descend on my shoulders. "Disrobe."

My silver skull belt clatters to the floor.

Leather corset laces slither through eyelets like adders retreating to stone crevices.

---