Page 47 of When You're Lost

Somewhere in the back offices, a faint light glimmered.Finn inclined his head in that direction.“She’s likely in her office.Let’s keep it calm until we know her reaction.”

They wove through the gallery’s main hall, past a large photograph exhibit.The usual hustle—tourists, art lovers, staff—was nowhere to be seen.Their footsteps echoed, an unsettling sound in the deserted space.

At last, they found a small corridor leading to a set of offices.A nameplate on one door read “Mary Whitmore, Assistant Curator.”A narrow strip of light shone from beneath.Finn exchanged a glance with Eleanor, then raised his knuckles to rap on the door.

“Come in?”a voice said hesitantly from inside.

Finn opened the door.The room was cramped, dominated by filing cabinets and stacked portfolios.At a small desk, Mary Whitmore sat poring over paperwork under a single desk lamp.She looked up, startled, as Finn and Eleanor stepped in.

Her eyes widened in recognition.“Mr.Wright?Dr.Matthews?What—why are you here so late?”

She rose slowly, smoothing her blouse as though to maintain composure.Finn noticed the tremor in her hands.He advanced, letting the door click shut behind them.“Mary Whitmore, we need to talk about your involvement in the forgeries.”

Mary’s lips parted, a flicker of fear crossing her face.“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered.

Eleanor kept her tone level.“We have reason to believe you were aware of certain forged paintings passing through Blackthorn Gallery.And we suspect you had a role in covering them up.”

Mary swallowed hard, eyes darting from Finn to Eleanor.“I… yes, I suspected some paintings weren’t authentic.But I'm not involved in anything, I swear.”

“Ely Abrams says you knew quite a bit about the entire fiasco,” Finn added.

Mary's bottom lip quivered.

Finn approached the desk, fists clenched at his sides.“I'd hate to think you had anything to do with the murders as well, but if you did, I will find out.”

Mary went pale.“That’s not true.I never killed anyone!”Her voice pitched with panic.

But Finn had fallen silent.His eyes were wide as he glared directly at her.

“What...What are you looking at?”she asked.

Finn pointed to the painting hanging on the wall behind her.

Finn’s gaze locked onto the canvas pinned to the office wall.He stepped closer, shining a small flashlight over its surface.The painting depicted a vaguely pastoral scene, though the style seemed amateur.What caught his attention was the dried, straw-like grass embedded in the brushstrokes.

He recognized that grass.“Eleanor,” he said, voice tense.“This grass—it looks identical to the type braided into Daniel Townsend’s hair to recreate Medusa's snakes.The same shape, color, dryness level.It looks like an exact match!”

Eleanor, hovering behind him, peered over his shoulder.She’d witnessed Townsend’s grisly crime scene.“You’re right…”

Finn turned slowly, expression grim.“Mary, how do you explain that?Did you make it!?”

Mary pressed her back against the desk.“It’s from that painting’s creator.He used real grass for texture.It was a gift!I had no reason to suspect it matched Daniel Townsend’s murder scene.You have to believe me.”

Eleanor studied the brushstrokes.“Whose work is it?”

Mary swallowed hard, eyes damp."David Smythe's.He gave it to me a few days ago as a sort of 'personal project.'He said it symbolized something about artists losing themselves in other—" She broke off, voice trembling.

Finn felt a chill run through him.“David Smythe?I spoke to him today.He gave us Ely Abram's name.”Finn couldn't quite believe it.David seemed so unassuming.So helpful and quiet.

“Has David ever given you reason to believe that he might resent people involved with the forgeries?”Finn asked.

Mary nodded fervently."Yes, but I'm sure he wouldn't...He's… fixated on real art vs.fake art.He can't stand forgeries, hates everything about them."She seemed to sag as though relieved to finally share what she knew."He's an art puritan—someone who believes in absolute authenticity."

Eleanor caught Finn’s eye.“If David’s giving Mary paintings that incorporate the same grass from Townsend’s murder, that suggests he might be the real killer.”

“And he might be even making a statement,” Finn mused, darkly.“Like you could be his final victim, Mary.”

Mary’s voice trembled.“He used to rant about ‘burning the forgeries if he could.’I never thought he’d become… violent.”

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