Page 27 of Stalked
But when I screech into the station's parking lot and race inside, I'm met with an empty bay. The twelve fifteen to New York has departed on schedule.
She's gone. Without a word. Without even saying goodbye.
11
LIA
PRESENT DAY…
Iadjust the lighting on our newest exhibition for the third time, stepping back to assess the effect. The interplay of shadow and light transforms the sculpture from merely interesting to captivating. This is what I love about curating—those small adjustments that make all the difference.
“Ms. Morgan?”
I turn to find my assistant, Paige, standing in the doorway of the gallery's main exhibition space. “There's someone here to see you.”
“Do they have an appointment?” I check my watch. It's nearly five, and I've been looking forward to reviewing submissions for our Emerging Artists Showcase all day.
“No, but he says it's important. He came all the way from Ravenwood Hollow.”
My hometown. The place I've visited a handful of times in fifteen years, either to visit my parents or for my high-school friends' milestones. Thankfully, my parents moved down to Florida six years ago, and I visit them more often there.
“Who is it?”
“Elliot Chambers.”
I freeze, the name instantly familiar even though we've never met. “Elliot Chambers is here? Now?”
Elliot Chambers—the art dealer whose reputation precedes him across the East Coast. His galleries in Ravenwood showcase artists who regularly become stars of the art world. I've followed his career from afar, admiring his eye for talent and his business acumen.
But why would he come to see me unannounced?
“Show him in,” I say, smoothing my pencil skirt and tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
Paige nods and disappears. I quickly survey the gallery, grateful that today's space looks immaculate. The current exhibition, featuring contemporary minimalism, has been well-received, with our sales numbers exceeding projections.
When Elliot Chambers walks in, he moves with the quiet confidence of someone who knows his value in the art world. Tall, distinguished, with dirty blonde hair and perfectly tailored clothing—he looks exactly like the photos I've seen in Art Monthly.
“Ms. Morgan.” He extends his hand. “It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I apologize for dropping in without warning.”
His handshake is firm, his smile genuine but measured.
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Chambers. Your reputation precedes you.”
“As does yours. Columbia's rising star curator. Your work with emerging artists has caught attention in circles that matter.” He glances around the gallery, his gaze appraising. “I won't waste your time. I've come with a proposition I believe might interest you.”
“I'm listening.” I lean against the edge of my desk, arms crossed. Although I'm curious, I ensure that I maintain my composure.
Elliot walks slowly around the gallery, his gaze lingering on a particularly striking minimalist sculpture.
“I'm opening a new gallery in Ravenwood Hollow,” he says, turning back to face me. “Not an extension of my current spaces—something entirely different. A blank canvas, if you will.”
My heart skips. Ravenwood. The place I've spent fifteen years avoiding.
“I need someone to run it,” he continues, his eyes steady on mine. “Someone with vision, with connections in the art world, and with a proven track record of discovering talent.”
“There are many qualified curators,” I say carefully.
“None with your particular eye. Your last three exhibitions have been revolutionary in their approach to emerging artists. You have a talent for spotting genius before others recognize it.” He steps closer. “I'm offering you complete creative control—the theme, the artists, the layout, everything. Your vision, without interference.”
