CHAPTER SEVEN

As Fiona Blake packed the last of her paintings into the back of her minivan, she tried in vain to tell herself that the gallery hadn't been a colossal failure.

Just one purchase, she thought bitterly. That's all I'd need to pay rent. Just one.

Instead, a parade of people had gawked at her paintings, some even expressing how ‘refined' and ‘sophisticated' the work was—but none had been willing to put their money where their mouth was. Exposure was great, but if it didn't lead to sales, Fiona's little experiment would end in her crawling back to her dad's fast food franchise and begging for her old job back.

She slammed the van door shut and winced at the sound of one of the paintings tipping over inside. She had brought plenty of materials to protect them during the trip back to her apartment—cardboard, bubble wrap, scotch tape—but when she learned that not one of her thirty-three paintings had sold, all of her careful preparation had gone out the window. The thought of meticulously wrapping and packing each unsold painting felt like an exercise in futility. Instead, she had just shoved them into the back of the van one after the other, as quickly as possible, like a bank robber eager to flee the scene of the crime.

Maybe I'll just put them down by the road with a FREE sign, she thought. There's got to be a hospital out there looking to cover some of that white wall space.

The van, which had been baking in the sun all morning, unleashed a breath of hot air as she opened the driver door and climbed in. She started the engine, rolled down the window, and drove out of the parking lot, trying to convince herself that it wasn't time to panic yet. She still had a few friends who'd expressed interest in buying her paintings. If she could convince just one of them to pull the trigger…

Her phone began to ring. It was her dad.

Oh, great. He's going to ask how the gallery went.

She considered ignoring the call, but knowing her dad, he would just get worried about her—and become even more persistent. Better just to get it over with. She tapped the green call button and put him on speaker.

"Hey, Dad," she said, trying to keep her voice neutral.

"Fiona, honey! How'd it go?" The excitement in his voice was palpable even through the tinny phone speakers. Fiona hated to deflate it.

She sighed. "About the same as when I took them to Felder University. Not a single sale."

"Oh..." There was a pause on his end of the line. The silence was deafening—the staticky void feeling like a judgment in itself. Then finally he spoke again, softer this time. "I'm sorry, sweetie. It's just... maybe people aren't ready for your talent yet."

His words were meant to comfort, but they simply twisted the knife. Fiona gritted her teeth, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Or maybe, I'm just not good enough," she said, her voice coming out with a bitter edge.

"Don't say that!" Her father's protest was immediate and vehement. "You're an amazing artist, Fiona. You just need to find your audience."

"Find my audience? Dad, I can't pay rent with 'finding my audience.' I can't buy groceries with exposure." The words spilled out before she could stop them, raw and pained.

There was another silence, longer than the previous one. Fiona hated that she was in this predicament, and she hated that she'd just confessed everything to her dad. She should've just lied to him, pretended everything was going great. The last thing she wanted to do was reinforce his belief that he needed to figure out her life for her and step in to save the day once again.

"I know it's hard, Fiona," her father finally said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "But remember, we all have setbacks in life. And I'm here for you no matter what."

His words brought a lump to her throat. Tears blurred her view of the road ahead, and she roughly wiped at them with the back of her hand. She wanted to argue, to tell him that she didn't need his pity or his help. But deep down, a part of her was grateful for his offer, even if it meant swallowing her pride.

She glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed a charcoal gray sedan with tinted windows behind her. Odd. Hadn't it been there when she left the gallery?

"Then again," her father continued, "maybe this isn't the right time for you. You could always come back to the restaurant— "

"No!" Fiona interrupted, too quickly. She took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm that was raging inside her. "No, Dad, I won't go back to flipping burgers."

She could almost picture him on the other end, running his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair—a sure sign of worry for him.

"There's no shame in it," he said gently. He paused for a moment, then added: "When I was your age, I had to work three jobs just to make ends meet. Before I finally opened the restaurant, I was a dishwasher, a janitor, and an auto mechanic."

"But you're not an artist, Dad," Fiona said. "You don't know what it's like to pour your soul into something only to have it go unnoticed, to be dismissed as if it were worth nothing more than the canvas it's drawn on." Fiona's voice hitched, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her.

Her father was silent for a long time. "I may not be an artist," he finally said, his voice rough with emotion, "but I do know what it's like to fight for something you love, even when the world seems against you."

Fiona swallowed hard. Yet again, she was reminded that her dad was more than just her father. He had dreams and struggles of his own, even if they were different from hers.

"I know, Dad," Fiona said. Her gaze briefly flicked to the rearview mirror again. The charcoal gray sedan was still there, keeping pace with her. An uneasy feeling began to creep over her.

"Listen," her father continued, "I didn't mean to upset you. I just want you to know that it's okay if you need a breather, and it's okay to ask for help when you need it."

Fiona let out a long sigh. If only she could make him understand how desperately she wanted to stand on her own, how much she needed to prove to herself she could do this alone.

"I appreciate it, Dad," she finally said, her voice barely a whisper. "But I believe in my work. I just need…time."

"Alright, sweetie. I'm here whenever you need me. Remember that, okay?"

"I will," she said as she pulled into the parking lot of her tiny studio apartment. She glanced toward the street, searching for the gray sedan, but it was nowhere to be seen. She felt relieved, though she wasn't quite sure what she'd been afraid of.

"I just got home," she muttered, a half-hearted attempt to end the conversation. "I should go. "

"I love you, Fiona." Her father's voice was firm and resolute, as though his words alone could shield her from the world's harsh realities.

"I love you, too, Dad," Fiona replied, the affectionate words getting tangled up with the knot of emotions in her throat. She hung up and stared blankly at her phone for a moment, willing herself to stand strong.

She got out of the car and retrieved her bag full of paints, brushes, and other art tools from the backseat. She made her way inside, climbed the long, rickety staircase to her third-story apartment—

And was surprised to see the front door standing ajar.

Fiona stopped, her heart rate kicking up a notch.

She tightened her grip on her bag and glanced nervously up and down the otherwise deserted corridor. She thought for sure she'd locked the door when she left this morning, a habit as entrenched as brushing her teeth. Then again, she'd been in such a hurry…

"Silly," she murmured to herself, trying to shake off her unease. She must have forgotten in her rush to get to the gallery. She pushed the door open and stepped inside. As she closed the door behind her, she was surprised to feel a current of warm air drifting through the apartment. The window overlooking the alley was wide open, billowing out her thin, gauzy curtains.

There was no way she'd left that open—she never opened that window.

"Hello?" she called tentatively, trying to think of anyone—family, friends, neighbors—who might have dropped in without her knowing. Surely there was some reasonable explanation for the open door and window. Surely—

Then the figure stepped into view. "Hello, Fiona. It's good to see you again."

Fiona stared, puzzled. Then relief washed over her at the familiar face. "You gave me such a scare. What are you doing here? You don't believe in calling?"

The figure moved closer, smiling, eyes fixed on Fiona's face. "That would have ruined the surprise."

"Surprise?" Fiona felt a flicker of unease.

"Yes," the figure said. "I'm thinking of doing a little painting myself. One painting, actually. "

There was something in the other's tone that troubled Fiona. She found herself edging back toward the door, resisting the urge to simply abandon all pretense and run. "Oh?" she asked. "What's your subject?"

"Why, you, of course," the figure said, drawing a small, ornate dagger. "I'm thinking I'll use a lot of red."