Chapter 2 - The Time on the Screen
“Before we go any further,” Saraphene said, “is this a police interview or a workplace interview?”
Bell, the gallery’s contracted security supervisor, shifted his weight. “We’re trying to establish an internal timeline.”
“Then I’m going to make a phone call.”
She called the friend who had helped her move after Trent’s third restraining-order violation. Jo Alvarez answered on the second ring, her voice rough with sleep. When Saraphene explained that security was questioning her about a missing object, Jo said, “Put me on speaker. And tell me exactly where you are.”
“Staff lounge. Beaumont Gallery. There’s a guard with me.”
“Good. I’m leaving now. Don’t sign anything you haven’t read.”
Saraphene was halfway through repeating that advice aloud when Selian appeared in the doorway, no jacket now, only his white shirt and the severe expression he had worn in the bathroom. He stopped outside rather than coming in.
“Miss Winters,” he said, “you asked where to return the envelope. The cashier can reverse it. You decide.”
Bell looked relieved. “Mr. Ashford, we may need a statement from you.”
“You’ll have an accurate one.” Selian glanced at Saraphene. “May I explain why?”
She considered him for a moment. “Yes.”
“At nine fourteen, she was in the private bathroom with me. A man opened the door and left after I told him it was occupied. I remained there with Miss Winters for several minutes afterward.”
Bell checked his tablet. “Your word against an electronic log.”
“An electronic log can tell you a credential was used,” Saraphene said. “It cannot tell you who used it.”
She pointed at the still. “That’s my tray. The handle is bent. I left it at the service station. Ask Marco where he put it.”
Bell hesitated, then made a note. Saraphene watched his face with the same concentration she gave a customer reaching across a crowded café counter. He was taking her seriously enough to write something down, but not seriously enough to show her what.
“The missing object?” she asked.
“A painting. The original of an oil landscape called Rain on the Breakwater. The work on display may be a copy.”
“The auction just ended,” Selian said. “That lot was billed as a donation to the Harbor House legal-aid fund.”
Bell gave him a warning look. “You know the donor.”
“I know the paperwork,” Selian answered. “Which is why I’ve been asking for a second inspection.”
Saraphene knew none of this. She had only seen a gray-blue painting hanging behind velvet ropes, accompanied by an oversized placard promising that the proceeds would support people escaping violence. She had thought of the shelter that once found her a bed and felt briefly pleased to be working the event.
“Did somebody buy it?” she asked.
“Someone pledged two hundred and eighty thousand dollars,” Selian said. “The gallery has already issued a receipt.”
It was a remarkable sum. It was also enough money to make the accusation against a temporary server frighteningly convenient.
Jo arrived wearing jeans, a rain jacket, and the expression of a woman prepared to argue with a hospital billing department. She stepped into the lounge and hugged Saraphene before looking at anyone else.
“Are you free to go?”
Bell frowned. “We haven’t finished.”
“Is she being detained by law enforcement?” Jo asked.
“No.”
“Then she’s leaving.”
Saraphene put the envelope on the table. She kept Selian’s card, but she did not take his money. “Hold that with the cashier. I’ll decide later.”
Selian nodded, neither insulted nor pleased. It was the first thing about him that felt uncomplicated.
At the employee exit, Marco intercepted them. “You need to sign out,” he told Saraphene.
She held up the temporary badge clipped to her waistband. “Here it is.”
His gaze dropped to it. A small muscle jumped near his mouth.
Jo noticed. So did Saraphene.
The badge’s plastic sleeve had been sealed with a blue clip when she started the shift. Now there was a fresh scratch beside the magnetic strip, as though someone had tested it with a copying device.
Outside, Jo’s car waited under a streetlight. Saraphene climbed in and locked the door. She gave Jo the full story, including Trent, the dark bathroom, and Selian’s strange generosity. Jo listened without interrupting.
Jo turned the heater down and asked Saraphene to look through her phone settings while they were parked. The old shared location service she had once used with Trent was off, but an apartment delivery app still showed the name he had used when they first lived together. Saraphene removed his access and took screenshots before changing the account password. She knew that would not erase the address from his memory. It would close one more door he had never been invited to keep open.
“Do you want to stay with me?” Jo asked.
“I want a place he doesn’t know. I don’t want you becoming the next person he bothers.”
“My aunt has a spare room. She’s retired, she’s stubborn, and she likes visitors who wash their cups.”
Saraphene smiled weakly. “That sounds manageable.”
Jo called ahead, explained only what Saraphene agreed she could share, and received an immediate yes. Saraphene wrote the gallery timeline in the notes app before sleep or fear could blur it. She included the moment she set the champagne bottle down, the sequence of doors, the exact words spoken in the bathroom, and Selian’s name. She deliberately marked uncertain times as approximate. If anyone later demanded a perfect memory, she would have the honest one she had recorded closest to the event.
At a red light, Saraphene’s phone lit up with an unknown number. A photograph appeared: her apartment door, taken from inside the building’s hallway. The timestamp read eleven thirty-six.
Below it was a message.
I KNOW WHERE YOU'LL GO WHEN THE GALLERY THROWS YOU OUT.
She had not told anyone at the gallery her current address. But Trent had once helped carry a couch into that apartment, back when she had believed he was a good man.
May you like
“Don’t take me home,” Saraphene said.
Jo was already changing lanes. “Wasn’t planning to.”
