Page 10 of Calculated Risk
It's uncomfortable. It's unfamiliar.
It's exactly what I need.
Chapter 4
Lilah
The coffee shopis my sanctuary, small, locally owned, run by an elderly couple who make the best espresso in the state.
"This place is..." Marcus looks around, taking in the mismatched furniture, the local art on the walls, the complete lack of corporate aesthetic.
"Chaotic?"
"I was going to say charming."
"Liar. You were going to say disorganized." I order my usual, triple shot latte with oat milk. "But that's okay. Organized people need to experience chaos sometimes. Builds character."
He orders black coffee. Of course he does.
We find a table in the corner. I pull out my sketchbook, flipping to the pages where I've been trying to recreate my destroyed work from memory.
"This was the centerpiece," I show him a sketch. "Oil on canvas, six feet by four feet. It took me three months. I call it 'Breaking Point.'"
"What's it about?"
"Generational trauma. Specifically, my grandmother's experience as an immigrant. The way pain gets passed down, transformed, until it's unrecognizable but still present." I tracethe lines of the sketch. "The canvas had layers, oil, acrylic, charcoal, even some mixed media elements. Photos of my grandmother embedded in the paint."
"Photos that can't be replaced."
"Exactly. I have copies, but they won't have the same history. The same weight." I flip to another page. "This was a sculpture. Wire and paper and found objects. 'Inherited Burdens.' Same theme, different medium."
Marcus studies my sketches with an intensity that makes me self-conscious.
"What?" I ask.
"Your work is about family. Connection. History."
"Very observant." I point out.
"So destroying it wasn't just destroying art. It was destroying your family's story."
"Yeah. That's exactly what it was." I say in a whisper, because it’s so very true.
"That's not vandalism. That's personal assault."
"Which is why I'm pretty sure it was Chelsea. She knows how much my grandmother means to me. I know these pieces are personal." I close the sketchbook. "But I can't prove it. Security footage is gone. No witnesses. Nothing."
"Security footage can be recovered. It takes expertise and time, but it's possible."
"You know someone?"
"I know several someones. Tech majors who owe me favors." He pulls out his phone, making notes. "I'll reach out. See if they can recover anything from the gallery's server."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. It might not work." He looks up from his phone. "Tell me about the other pieces. Everything you had planned."
So I do. I spend the next hour walking him through my entire thesis show. Every painting, every sculpture, every carefully planned installation. He takes notes, asks questions, occasionally makes suggestions that are actually helpful.
