Page 18 of When You're Lost

Rob and Finn looked at each other, and Finn knew that Eleanor was right.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Finn stepped through the heavy glass doors of the Blackthorn Gallery, the faint smell of fresh paint and lemon polish drifting into his nose.The space looked deceptively calm under high recessed lighting—white walls, smooth floors, and the echoing hush that came with high-end art exhibitions.Yet Finn felt tension bristling in the air, an undercurrent he recognized from countless investigations.He was here to uncover more about the killer who’d staged two murders like famous paintings, and, so far, the trail had led right back to this gallery, twice.

Beside him, Eleanor walked with her usual poised step.She glanced around, eyes skimming over the minimalist sculptures placed at intervals.Finn had come to appreciate her calm intellect, even if they didn't rub along too well together.She seemed equally determined to figure out how this gallery’s recent exhibition connected to the violent poses that had claimed both Victoria Palmer and Edmund Garner in such brutal fashion.

“This place is busier than last time,” Finn observed quietly.He noted a handful of staff scurrying about, moving crates and adjusting lighting fixtures.“They must be preparing for tonight’s event.”

Eleanor nodded.“Yes, they’re opening a new show.It's always a stress for the artists.Looks to be more postmodern pieces.Quite a departure from theShared Views: Four Centuries of English, Dutch, and Flemish Paintingexhibit they hosted a few weeks ago—where they featured references toThe CornfieldandThe Blue Boy.”

Finn wanted to joke that Eleanor sounded at times like a robot, but he kept that thought to himself.Amelia would have joked back in the blink of an eye, but Finn's new temporary partner didn't rise to the banter Finn used to get through jobs like this one.

Finn nodded.“I wonder where the owner is,” he said, scanning the space for the gallery’s owner, Harrison Blackthorn.“We need to see if there’s a pattern in the rest of the pieces from that exhibit.If we can figure out the pattern and how the killer is identifying victims through these paintings, we might be able to protect the next person in line.”

A flash of movement caught his eye: Mary, Harrison's assistant, hurried down a corridor, clipboard in hand.She looked up and recognized them with a startled expression."Oh… Mr.Wright, Doctor Matthews," she greeted, seemingly trying to keep a polite tone."You're back again.Is there something new I can help you with?As you can see, we're very busy."

Eleanor answered calmly, “We need more information.Specifically a list of every painting or item from a recent exhibit—the one that included references toThe CornfieldandThe Blue Boy.”

Mary tucked the clipboard under her arm, biting her lower lip nervously.“I see.Well, Mr.Blackthorn’s in the middle of last-minute arrangements for tonight’s opening.He… he might not be thrilled to see you again.”Her voice lowered.“He’s already been… tense.”

Finn shared a look with Eleanor.“We’ll have to talk to him,” Finn said.“We’ll try not to hold him up.”

Mary nodded, seeming to gather herself.“All right.Let me see if he’s available.Wait here, please.”

The gallery’s main hall buzzed with staff members adjusting artworks on stands, some tapping at laptops to verify inventory.Finn noticed that most of the pieces displayed were modern: abstract paintings with bold swaths of color, edgy sculptures in steel and glass.None of them resembled the classic works the killer was referencing.

Eleanor leaned in, voice low.“Do you think someone like Harrison might be involved?”

Finn shrugged, scanning a series of plinths lined up against one wall.“I’m not ruling him out.He had a major disagreement with Victoria Palmer over a painting, and he was seemingly furious about the possibility of a forgery tarnishing the gallery’s reputation.Then Edmund Garner is connected to another painting that was just displayed here.Seems too coincidental to ignore.”

Before Eleanor could respond, Harrison Blackthorn strode into view, and the tension in his posture was instantly palpable.“You again?”he snapped, approaching with a forced, narrow-eyed smile.Dressed in a sleek black suit, he exuded the polished persona of a gallery owner but radiated an undercurrent of hostility.“I’m about to open a show in less than six hours.What do you want?”

Finn met his gaze, keeping his voice measured.“We have reason to believe the same killer who murdered Victoria Palmer has struck again.In both instances, the victims were posed to resemble paintings you featured in your previous exhibition.We need details about every piece in that show.”

Harrison’s face darkened.“This again?You come in here, making thinly veiled accusations.I’ve answered your questions.And now you want an entire list.Do you have a warrant?”

Eleanor arched a brow.“We can get one, if that’s simpler.But that would mean bringing uniformed officers here en masse.It won’t be great for the gallery’s image, would it?I certainly know it would put off patrons.”

Harrison bristled, cheeks flushing.“Are you threatening me?”

“It’s not a threat,” Finn said evenly.“We’re just trying to prevent another murder.If the reputation of your gallery has to be a casualty in that pursuit, so be it.”

Mary hovered behind Harrison, touching his sleeve gently.“Mr.Blackthorn, please… They’re only trying to help.It will be much worse if we have to close the exhibition due to a police raid.The newspapers would have a field day.”

Harrison pulled away with an irritated jerk.“Fine.”He glared at Finn and Eleanor.“But this is the last time I indulge these… intrusive demands.Mary—get them whatever they need.”

“We might need to ask where you were last night and the night Victoria Palmer died,” Finn added.

“An alibi?”he scoffed.“Am I under arrest?If so, I'll get my solicitor.”

“You're not under arrest,” Finn said.“But we just want to ask...”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and stalked off, muttering about incompetent police and how the gallery was no place for a “circus.”Finn watched him vanish around a corner, feeling a familiar prickle of suspicion.The man wore arrogance like a second skin.

Mary, cheeks warm with embarrassment, sighed.“He’s under a lot of pressure.Tonight’s event is crucial, especially after the rumors of forged paintings.Donations and endorsements are on the line.”She forced a polite smile.“Let’s go to the back office.We keep archives and lists there.”

Finn gave her a mild nod.“Sure.”

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