“Heroin mostly,” I said. “He was using his art to recover, taking classes to try and express himself again through a medium that brought him comfort.”
The man’s voice was gruff like tire trucks scraping over gravel rocks. I scanned his body again and noticed his fingernails. They were dirty and caked in dust and oil. I was curious about the man and about how he had come to know about this gallery. Was he looking for something? Understanding maybe? He seemed to be very perceptive of John’s work, and it made me wonder if the two had anything in common.
“How much are these paintings worth?” the man asked.
“They aren’t for sale,” I said.
“I didn’t ask if they were. I was just asking if they were worth anything,” he said.
“They’re priceless,” I said.
“Interesting.”
He continued walking around the gallery and that uneasy feeling returned. I sat back down on my seat and slid my hand back into my pocket. The man’s eyes were glossed over like he wasn’t really all there. He walked around the gallery and took in the rest of the paint
ings, but then he ended up back in front of that pair of pictures.
“Seen these in the newspaper,” he said.
“I loan them out to places in town so they can display them.”
“Must mean they’re worth something.”
Why in the world was this man so intent on knowing the price of these pictures?
“Like I said. They’re priceless.”
“Maybe I could take one off your hands,” he said.
“They aren’t for sale,” I said.
“They should be. You owe me a lot of money.”
I furrowed my brow as I took in his words. I owed him money? I didn’t even know who this guy was! I felt my hands beginning to tremble as the man turned his gaze to me. I figured out why his gaze looked so familiar and why his glossed-over eyes made me so nervous.
The man was high, and judging by the state of his clothes, he was also homeless.
“Sir. I have no idea who you are or what you’re talking about, but you obviously have me confused with someone else.”
“Hailey McBride, right? The woman with the small art shop in Los Angeles?”
My blood froze in my veins as a grin grew on the man’s disgusting face.
“Get out,” I said.
“I don’t believe that’s any way to treat a customer,” he said. “One of these paintings will do just fine.”
“I’m not giving you a damn thing. Now get out. Immediately.”
“It’s your fault he’s dead, you know.”
“Who?” I asked.
“John.”
I felt all the blood drain from my face as my hand grew weak around my phone. The world had stopped spinning, and I felt like I was floating in the air. I couldn’t get my fingers to move. No matter how much I screamed for them to press the damn button, I couldn’t get them to budge. The man slowly approached the cash register, his arm leaning against the counter. I could feel bile rising up my throat, tainted with the disgusting decaf coffee I had choked down this morning to try and feel normal.
“Your ex-boyfriend caused my family a lot of heartache,” the man said.