Page 8 of Stalker's Toy

The air smells of lemon oil and distant woodsmoke.

Upstairs, vacuum-sealed display cases hold Renaissance sketches—Michelangelo's anatomical studies beside Dürer's meticulous beetles.

My cleaning cloth hovers over a Caravaggio reproduction.

The figure's outstretched hand mirrors the phoenix's talons from earlier.

Henrik's latest acquisition leans against the wainscoting—an unsigned oil painting of a burning theater.

Flames lick at velvet curtains in precise whorls that make my breath hitch.

I crouch to examine the brushwork.

The fire seems to move when viewed from the left, smoke coalescing into faces.

My phone vibrates with a gallery alert.

Lindberg Collection Acquires Controversial Arson Series.

The preview image shows charred canvas edges framing a child's silhouette in ash.

Francisco's shoes whisper across the Persian rug. "Mr. Lindberg's flight was delayed. You've got some extra time."

"Lucky me."

The LED display on my dusting wand blinks red.

I plug it into an outlet shaped like a lion's head. "Does he ever actually look at these?"

"More than you'd think." Francisco adjusts a Velázquez frame half a millimeter leftward. "The Klimt in the breakfast nook—he stares at that one for hours sometimes."

I polish the Vermeer's protective glass.

The girl's pearl earring winks under my cloth.

Three hundred years, and still that trapped light looks wet.

My reflection ghosts over her face—same high cheekbones, same too-pale complexion.

The security system chimes three descending notes.

Francisco's posture stiffens. "He’s earlier than I expected."

A door slams somewhere below.

I tuck loose hair under my cleaning cap as footsteps ascend the grand staircase—measured, rhythmic, pausing at each landing.

My rag makes frantic circles over a Titian nude.

"Miss Cohen."

Henrik's voice slicks through the room like oil.

I turn slowly.

He stands in the doorway holding a black leather portfolio dripping rain onto the parquet.

Water darkens the cuffs of his tailored trousers.

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