by Amanda Rose
Hoping her knees would support her, she stood. She only bobbled once, but Ravi was there, her coat in his hand, and caught her. “Okay?”
“Mmhm,” she answered, still swimming in the warmth of his touch and compliments. Had anyone made her feel this special before?
Ravi helped her into her coat, and when she stared at him, a smile she knew must be ridiculous on her face, he buttoned her coat for her. A bag rested near the door, and he snagged it on their way by.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ve been here nearly two hours. I need to get you back.”
Two hours? Shira couldn’t remember the last time she’d made out, hot and heavy, for so long that time got away from her. She giggled, giddiness overflowing. “I can’t believe it was two hours. I still have so much work to do.”
At the mention of her work, Ravi’s face suddenly shuttered. “Then I really need to get you back.”
His joy was snuffed out like a candle. What had caused it? He held the door open for her, but she stopped. “Ravi. What is it?”
He stared at the floor. When he looked at her, eyebrows drawn low on his forehead, frowning, it was like she was seeing a different person. “Nothing. We should go.”
A combination of shame and irritation filled her, and she stomped past him down the stairs and onto the street. He didn’t attempt to mollify her. He merely walked next to her silently, letting her stew in her confusion and disappointment.
“I’m good.” She stopped. She couldn’t handle another step with him. “Just go. It’s right there. I can see the light from here.”
“I’m not going to just leave you on the street, Shira.” He made it sound like it was the stupidest thing ever.
But no. The stupidest thing ever was making out, and nearly coming, with a guy she hardly knew. Tears filled her eyes again, and she angrily wiped them away.
“Just go, okay, Ravi? I can’t handle you right now.” Her voice broke on the last word.
“Shira.” Her name somehow sounded like it tortured him, but he didn’t argue anymore. With one glance up and down the street, and another at his watch, he nodded abruptly. Turning on his heel, he hurried back the way they’d come, and out of sight.
Shira watched him go, her heart aching. She shouldn’t care this much about someone she just met. But Ravi had given her a look inside him tonight, and she thought she might be starting to understand him.
The gallery was just ahead of her, but mired in her upset, Shira didn’t see the mess she was walking into until her hand was on the splintered door.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
The door—steel reinforced—hung off its hinges and the glass windows—shatterproof— were spidered with cracks.
Part of her brain screamed at her to turn around, run to the police, but she’d already pushed the door open and walked inside. Glass crackled beneath her feet.
The gallery was destroyed. There was no other word for what had been done here. Pedestals stood empty, paintings had been ripped off the walls. The lights were still on, low and flickering, giving a nightmarish strobe effect to everything.
Shira slipped on something, coming down hard on one knee. She braced her hand against the floor and pushed herself up. Somewhere behind her, a window or glass case fell to the ground and shattered.
Later, she wouldn’t remember what she said to the emergency dispatcher, but the woman must have gotten the gist because in minutes the building swarmed with police officers.
Then it filled with gallery employees, and finally Director Lohse, who stared at her with more hate than she’d ever imagined. “Arrest her,” he said, his jaw clenched. “This is all her fault.”
FIFTH DAY
It was like something out of a film noir. Director Lohse pointed his finger at her, and as one, each police officer seemed to shift their gaze and narrow their eyes at her.
“I didn’t do this.” Her voice shook. It was the absolute guiltiest thing she could say. If the detectives hadn’t suspected her at first, her denial wouldn’t help. Isn’t that what guilty people did?
One of the detectives, a middle aged woman in an ill-fitting suit, approached her. “Can you come with me, Ms. Rose?”
The detective seemed to know where she was going and led her directly to Shira’s office. “Ms. Rose, I’m Detective Figaroa. Why don’t you lead me through this evening? According to the receptionist, you left early?”
“I did.” Shira sat in her chair. Fingers twisting together, she waited.
“What time did you leave?”
Shira told her, running through the entire evening, step-by-step. Detective Figaroa wrote down everything she said. “Do you have the contact information of Ravi Hasmone?” she asked. “So we can verify your whereabouts?”
“Yes,” she answered, then. “No. Actually, Carmen might have his number. My cell phone was stolen the other night. I was mugged outside the gallery.”
“You filed a police report?”
Shira shook her head. “No. I didn’t. I just cancelled all my cards, or, I had Carmen do it.”
“You didn’t file a report?” The detective folded her notebook and placed it in her jacket pocket. “Why wouldn’t you do that?”
It now seemed a colossally stupid move. “I thought it was a waste of time.”
Another police officer walked into her office. “Detective.”
“Wait here,” Figaroa said, leaving her alone.
Shira leaned her elbows on her desk, dropping her head into her hands. A headache was forming behind her eyes, a throbbing that promised to be hellish. Dinner roiled in her stomach, and she clenched her teeth. She was moments from puking.
“Ms. Rose?” Detective Figaroa entered her office along with two uniformed officers. “It appears your identification key card was used to disarm the alarm on the outside door.”
“But I don’t have my ID key card. Review the cameras. You’ll see I wasn’t here.”
“We would, but it appears that the ID was also used to log into the computers and turn off the security alarms,” she went on.
“I don’t understand.” Shira’s teeth chattered and she crossed her arms. A cold sweat broke out over her body even though the temperature in the gallery was verging on sweltering.
“Ms. Rose, you’re being placed under arrest.” The detective began to recite her rights, but Shira couldn’t process them. One of the officers helped her to her feet, then turned her around to place cold metal handcuffs on her wrists. “Do you understand these rights?” she asked.
“Yes,” Shira managed to get out.
The officers led her through the gallery. Like earlier, it felt as if every eye in the place was on her. But none of them were as full of rage as Director Lohse’s. “I’ll make sure you can’t get a job collecting garbage, Shira,” he ground out. “I should have known. You’re a lying, stealing piece of trash. Look what you’ve done.”
Shira couldn’t help but examine the room. It was wrecked in some places, and completely fine in others. Somehow, through the chaos of her thoughts, it struck her. The objects missing were the ones Lohse had added to the collection—the lamp, the Beckmann, the Pissarro. She tried to make sense of it, but the officer dragged her toward the door.
Snow fell outside the gallery. Heavy, wet snowflakes landed in her lashes and melted against her skin. The icy water ran down her cheeks like tears.
The door to the squad car was open, and the officer helped her sit. He was gentle with her, for that she was grateful. Her body felt fragile, as if she would shatter at any too rough jarring.
“Excuse me,” an accented voice cut through her thoughts. “Shira. Excuse me, officer, what’s happening?”
At her name, Shira glanced up, but the officer closed the car door before she could respond. It was Yaphet. He spoke to the officer, gesturing toward her.
Shira watched the snow fall onto his blonde hair, darkening the strands until it looked black. He took off his glasses, and shook his head. His gaze caught hers
, but he switched his attention back to the officer again.
She was equal parts mortified and relieved. This way, at least, he would tell Ravi what happened. Then, Ravi could corroborate the events she’d shared with the detective tonight. Hopefully his presence meant this nightmare had an expiration date on it.
Dov, Pascal, and Yaphet could attest to her being attacked a few nights ago. Shira settled back against the seat and grimaced. Her hands wouldn’t allow her to lean back. The seat was hard plastic, and angled slightly toward the floor so she slid forward no matter where she was.
Planting her feet on the floor, she tried to sit up straight. She stared at Yaphet, hoping against hope that he’d manage to get her out of here before she was taken to the station.
But it wasn’t to be. Whatever the officer said to him made him shake his head. When he saw her staring at him, he gave her a sympathetic smile, but then stepped away.
So she was on her own then. Okay.
It wouldn’t be for too long. He’d tell Ravi. She still had a phone call. She’d call her parents, and they’d come for her.
The officer got into the car and they pulled away from the gallery. Shira watched Yaphet, who, in turn, watched her. From the darkness, another figure appeared at his side. Short-hair, blue eyes.
Pascal.
He stared wide-eyed at her before facing Yaphet. Even from the distance increasing between them, Shira could tell he was upset. His arms gestured wildly, and he stepped closer to his brother.
Soon, they were only tiny blobs beneath the street lamps, but Shira imagined she could feel Yaphet’s gaze on her.
The rest of the morning was as nightmarish as the day had started. Shira was fingerprinted. They took her mug shot, and for one brief second, like she had at the DMV, she wondered if she should smile.
What a picture. She imagined it on the front page of the New York Post, run large with some pun like, Hard Cell. Auction Curator Arrested for Burglary.
Shira was placed in a holding cell. She’d be allowed to make a phone call, but apparently it had been a busy night, because she had to wait her turn.
The other women in the cell sat on the benches or hung out near the door, leaning against the wall. Some of them talked to each other, but for the most part, they were silent. Some were dressed like her, as if they’d been picked up on their way from the office. She wondered what they’d done.
“Rose?” An officer asked.
Shira stood, waiting for the door to open. Would they put handcuffs on her again? God, what was she going to tell her parents when they answered the phone? They’d be so upset.
But the officer didn’t take her in the direction she’d seen the other women led. He brought her to the front desk. When she saw who was there, she stumbled to a stop.
Dov, Ravi, Pascal, and Yaphet, along with another man Shira didn’t recognize.
“Sign here,” the officer said, holding a pen out to her, but she didn’t take it.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Pascal spoke. “Yaphet and I called Ravi and Dov. Ravi’s a lawyer and he has contacts in the city. This is Jeremy Prince. He’s your lawyer and you’re being released on your own… what’s the word?” He narrowed his eyes at Jeremy, but Ravi was the one who answered.
“Recognizance,” Ravi said. “There are conditions of your release, but you’re free to go.”
“How?” The officer put the pen in her hand, and she glanced down at the papers in front of her. “Why?”
“Sign, please.” The officer’s voice jolted her and she quickly scribbled her signature on the forms.
He handed her a bag of items: keys, cash, credit card, and she stuffed them in her pocket.
When it was clear none of the brothers were ready to answer, Jeremy did. “They called me. Told me the situation. I got you released. You’ll need to show up for your court date, if that happens, but I think with the information Ravi, and his grandmother, shared with the detectives, the charges will be dropped.”
Her knees gave out, and she tripped, but Yaphet was there. Faster than she could track, he caught her elbow, keeping her on her feet. “Thank you.” She gripped his arm with both hands, surprised by how muscular he was. It reminded her of Ravi. Perhaps all of them were the same. Deceptively fit, and blatantly handsome.
It was humiliating for them to see her this way. No doubt she was an utter wreck. She’d probably cried her make-up off. Earlier, she’d bitten her nails down to the quick, and then she’d taken to gnawing her lip as she waited for the officers to allow her a phone call.
Silently, they led her from the station, but Yaphet kept her arm snug in his. Every so often, Ravi would glance over his shoulder, and give her a reassuring smile that almost immediately fell from his lips.
She wanted to tell him she was all right, but she wasn’t sure she was. Everything that had happened seemed to take on a surreal quality. When the guys ushered her into a massive SUV, she heard their voices, felt their hands, but through a haze.
“Shira? Shira.”
The SUV had rolled away from the sidewalk, and she hadn’t realized it.
“Shira, where do you live?” Dov asked. He sat in front, next to Jeremy.
She examined the interior of the car. Yaphet was next to her, and Ravi next to him. Pascal sat alone, behind them in the third row seat.
Dov leaned toward the center of the car, propping his elbow on the armrest between his seat and the driver’s.
“You can’t bring her home and leave her there.” Pascal’s voice was heated, and it surprised her. Each time she’d met him, he seemed not to like her. Why was he arguing? Where did he expect his brother to bring her?
“Pascal’s right.” Yaphet’s voice was warm, comforting. He didn’t project any of the impulsivity Pascal did. “By now, news of her arrest will be all around town. I wouldn’t be surprised if we met reporters outside her building.”
Dov had just taken a swallow of water, but at Yaphet’s argument, he began to cough. When he stopped, he shook his head. “We talked about this,” Dov said, frowning. It was awkward for Shira to be between the siblings as they argued. One clearly wanted to take her home, while the others wanted to drive her somewhere else. Where, was the question?
Shira glanced down at her watch, but it wasn’t on her wrist. Had they taken it? She couldn’t remember.
“Check your pocket,” Yaphet whispered.
She shifted on the seat, making room to shove her hand into her coat. The cool metal grazed her fingertips and she withdrew it. Five am. Her father wouldn’t be awake for another hour.
If she went there, she’d have them all up in arms. The entire family may be called in to deal with her, and she couldn’t handle that. Not right now.
Shira edged forward, trying to see over Jeremy’s shoulder to get her bearings. “Take a left up here, and then I’m four blocks away. Or you could stop. I can walk.”
“You’re not walking.” Pascal’s voice was rough. She peered over her shoulder, and he looked exactly like she expected—tense. “Take her to your apartment, Dov. She can stay with us until we work this out.”
“No,” Shira said, at the same time Dov answered, “Fine.”
Their eyes met, gazes clashing, but he was the first to glance away. Her first impression of Dov had been that he was a steady presence. A doctor, he usually exuded competence, but right now, he seemed overwhelmed. “Yaphet’s right. It will probably be swarmed with reporters from the Post or New York Daily News. They love stories like hers.” He raked his hand through his dark hair in a manner so like Ravi’s, she had to glance to the side to make sure she hadn’t mistaken one brother for the other.
She hadn’t.
Ravi, sad-eyed, watched her. “I’m so sorry, Shira. Please come home with us. You can rest all day. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
Jeremy drove straight by the turn-off. With a sigh, she leaned back in her seat. “Next left, Jeremy. Then another left, and straight three blocks.”
“No.” Dov’s voice came out louder than he perhaps meant it, because he said it again, quieter. “No. They’re right. You can come to my place.”
Jeremy nodded, and made a righthand turn.
It killed her to ask, but she had to. “Do you all know what I was arrested for?”
“Yes,” Yaphet answered. “I explained to them what happened. We know you didn’t do anything wrong, Shira.”
“It feels like I did,” she answered without meaning to.
“Why?” Pascal touched her shoulder, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. “Why would you feel that way?”
How was she supposed to explain that every moment in this job had been a mistake? She’d been so full of herself. She believed she was ready to curate a collection. Clearly, she didn’t have what it took. She couldn’t even authenticate a simple Impressionist painting’s provenance.
And they were some of the easiest trails to follow in the world. Everyone wanted a Monet. Or Pissarro.
Everyone.
And she couldn’t do it.
She was a fraud, and Director Lohse knew it. No wonder the man couldn’t stand her. He was faced with her incompetence day after day.
Jeremy pulled to a stop. “I’ll come by later, so we can talk out your case. I’m more than just a fantastic driver, you know.” He winked at her and smiled, but it dropped away when he met Dov’s glare. He gave a more solemn nod to the brothers, waiting for them to get out.
Her door opened, and Pascal held out his hand. Whatever else he might be, however he may have acted in the past, his compassion right now was everything Shira needed. She placed her hand in his as she jumped out of the car, but he didn’t release it right away. Instead, he held on as they went up the stairs, under the scaffold, and into Dov’s apartment.
“Do you want to call anyone? Do anything?” Dov asked. “A shower maybe?”
A shower sounded like heaven. Her time in the cell had left a miasma of dirt on her.
“A shower would be great,” she answered.
“Okay.” There was a moment where he stared at each of his brothers. It was a little weird to be surrounded by all of them while they had some kind of loaded, silent conversation.
