Sophie Oak - One to Keep

“Let’s go, Waters,” a surprisingly deep voice said. “You have a visitor.”

Jennifer Waters brought her head up quickly and looked at the guard. She’d kept her head down because it seemed the safest way to survive the experience. It had been all right when her cell mates had been a couple of prostitutes. Annie and Roxie had been sweet, if totally underdressed for the February weather. Unfortunately, Annie had turned out to be Andy and Roxie really had a set tucked away in his miniskirt. They’d been taken to the men’s holding cell, and now Jen was left with two drunks and a woman who had already threatened to kill her because she didn’t like brunettes. All in all, a visitor seemed like a good thing.

She got up from her place in the corner and followed the bulky guard. It was quiet this early in the morning, but Jen still felt paranoid. That was what happened when one minute you were an up-and-coming artist and the next the police were hauling you away. It had been a rough twenty-four hours.

“In there.” The guard opened the door to one of the interview rooms, and Jen walked in.

It was a small, dank room. The fluorescent lights gave everything a slightly green cast. There was a metal table bolted to the floor and two chairs. An expensive-looking briefcase sat on the table, and a man paced by the barred window. He turned immediately when the door opened.

“Thank god. I thought they were never going to bring you out.

I’ve been here for three hours.” The man looked to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. He was strikingly handsome with dark hair and green eyes. He wore a dark suit and a snowy white shirt. An emerald silk tie matched his eyes.

“Are you the public defender?” Jen asked. It was so reassuring to see someone who didn’t have a gun strapped to his waist.

The door closed behind her. It locked with a telling thud.

Everywhere she’d been for the last twenty-four hours had a locked door. She sat down, her legs shaking.

“Not exactly, but I am your lawyer,” he said, sinking into the seat across from her. “My name is Finn Taylor. Do you know why you were arrested?”

She knew why. The police had been over it about a thousand times. It just didn’t make any sense to her. “I’ve been accused of theft. They think I stole a painting.” A painting worth roughly a half a million dollars, to be exact. She didn’t think she would ever forget that moment when her boss, Jean Claude Renard, led the police back to the office of the prestigious art gallery where Jen had been working for the last five months. Boss, she thought ruefully. Jean Claude had been much more than her boss.

He’d been an experiment to see if she could ever get over…

Jen took a deep breath. She wasn’t going to think about him. She was going to do what she’d been doing her whole life, focus on the here and now. Thinking about Stefan Talbot and everything she’d left behind in Bliss would only make the situation worse.

“Yes,” Finn Taylor’s voice brought her back to reality, “you’ve been accused of grand larceny. Renard is accusing you of stealing a painting from the gallery. It was a painting by Picasso.”

“Yes, I know it well. It was one of his smaller canvases. It was brought in for repair. The owner had a small fire in his home, and there was some smoke damage. Jean Claude is a renowned restorer.” It was one of the reasons she’d been excited to work for him. She’d been in the same room with several masterpieces, so close she could see the brushstrokes. The first few months with him had been a series of wonders. The last had been a nightmare.

The lawyer’s eyebrows quirked up as he flicked open his pen. A perfect white notepad lay in front of him. “Any chance that you know where it is or who might have taken it?” Tears filled her eyes. “No. I walked in yesterday morning, and it was gone. It was in the restoration room the night before. Jean Claude had been working on it. It was almost done.”

“And you have access to that room.”

She forced herself to nod. She’d been over this with the police.

“Yes, I know the code. Jean Claude lets me work in there. It’s a large studio. There’s more than enough room for two easels. I work in there every day. The light is just perfect.” She’d been planning to work yesterday when all hell had broken loose. She’d gotten off the train at her stop in Deep Ellum and made her way to the gallery, feeling light for the first time in a long while.

She’d known how to fix her painting. Renard had told her he might be able to find a buyer for her newest work. It was good, but it wasn’t perfect, she’d decided. She hadn’t gotten the colors just right. She’d stared at that painting for days while the oils dried. Even after they had dried, she’d stared at the painting. After the gallery show the night before, she’d known what it needed. Despite the late hour, she’d stayed and worked. This painting would be perfect, she’d known. It was similar to the first, but this one would be better. This would be the one that broke her out. She’d been thinking of how her last three

works had sold very quickly. She’d been smiling when she entered the gallery because she’d felt like an up-and-coming artist.

She’d never felt quite as alone as she had when they put her in the back of that police car. Her one and only thought had been to call the one man she’d promised she would never call again. Even now she longed for his authoritative presence.

“When was the last time you saw the Picasso?” She sniffled and straightened her back. She was alone in this, and she needed to be strong. “It was there the morning of the gallery show. I assumed he put it in the safe for the show. He wouldn’t leave it lying around. After the gallery show, I stayed late to supervise the cleanup. I went into the restoration room because I wanted to work for a while. Jean Claude said he might be able to sell another painting for me, and I needed the money. I wanted to work fast, though. He said he had someone coming in this morning to look at the work. I thought if I could get it right, maybe the buyer would be impressed. I didn’t want him to see the first one. It’s all right, but the colors weren’t right, you see. There was too much red. I needed something soothing.

Green. I mixed a lovely green. It had some blue tones. Emotional but muted.”

“Okay, so the day before the Picasso was still there. It went into the safe, and you didn’t see it again.” Finn ignored her arty comments, but she was used to that. He was all business. “You didn’t see the painting after the show?”

“No, I didn’t. And I had no idea it was missing. I came in late. I had worked until really late the night before, and then I had to take the first canvas home because Jean Claude hates it when I have two canvases in the restoration room. I wanted the new painting to be waiting for the buyer right there in the middle of the room as though it had a bow on it. The trains had stopped running. I had to walk home lugging that canvas. I can be forgiven for sleeping in a bit, right?

When I walked in yesterday morning the whole gallery was chaotic.

Jean Claude was screaming. The receptionist was crying. He immediately started yelling at me. He says I was the last one to use the code.”

Finn’s lips turned down, and he made a few notes as he spoke.

“Yes, that’s what the security company is saying. They claim they can produce records that show when you entered and when you left. We can’t tell when the safe was last open. It’s manual. Is it true that the code you used on the door was unique to you?” There was the rub, and Jen knew it. “Yes. When I was hired I was interviewed by the security company, and I selected a password. All employees select a code.”