Page 68 of The Gift
She shook her head, watching him pass the window, and made a mental note to hide the purple hues before he arrived.
“I love them all,” her assistant said as she wiped down the long table. “But I thought class would never end tonight. I’m starving.”
Wednesdays were always long days. Anna was the only help she had in the gallery, all she could currently afford, and she wanted to keep her.
“Go,” she told her. “I’ll lock up.”
“Are you sure? You worked through lunch, too.”
“This won’t take long.”
“No need to twist my arm.” Anna grabbed her purse from behind the front counter. “Night!”
Erica gathered stray rags and brushes, closed paint tubes, and set them on the tray she carried to the sink in her studio. As she cleaned brushes, she hummed. Musically inclined, she was not, but who was there to hear?
When the bell over the door chimed, she shut the water off and reached for the towel, but it wasn’t there.
“I’m closing up,” she called, scanning the counters for it.
Footsteps rang out. “I think you’ll want to stay and talk to me.”
Hands dripping, she turned as Darren Holt appeared in the doorway.
It had been years since El Paso, but she recognized him instantly. He looked much less polished than she remembered—longer hair, stubbled rather than clean-shaven, and a rumpled shirt that looked slept in.
His eyes were the same. Not warm. Never kind. Always calculating. His ever-present spiral notebook was still there, too, jutting from his shirt pocket.
Being alone with him made her skin crawl. “What do you want, Mr. Holt?”
“You remember me. I’m honored.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I also remember the worst bout of flu I’ve ever had.”
He smiled without warmth. “I wanted to talk privately.”
“Perhaps you should have called and made an appointment.” She would have said no then, too.
“I tried.”
“Where? Here?” She glanced at the multi-line phone on the counter, right next to her cell phone. “I didn’t receive any messages.”
“Because I didn’t leave any.”
His curt answers were already wearing thin. “I’m closing up. Now isn’t a good time.”
He didn’t move. “I’ve written one article already.”
“I saw. I’m assuming the nontraditional source you cited but didn’t name was me.”
“I was being generous.”
She crossed her arms. “Generous implies I owe you something.”
“Don’t you?”
“Hardly. I recall you being critical, demeaning, and rude. I don’t reward those behaviors with further conversation. Please leave.”
Any warmth vanished. “You live across from a murder scene. You have a documented history of assisting law enforcement in unconventional ways.”
