Chapter 2 - THE PAINTING THAT VANISHED IN BROAD DAYLIGHT
“I disappointed you.”
Ryan Adler spoke those three words so calmly that Ivy Sanders almost laughed.
Almost.
Instead, she stared at the $2,400 lying on her paint-stained table, then looked up at the most dangerous man she had ever met.
“You know what your problem is, Mr. Adler?”
Marcus, standing behind Ryan, closed his eyes.
Ryan raised an eyebrow.
“I have several. Be specific.”
“You’re accustomed to people saying yes before you finish asking.”
“That hasn't been my experience with you.”
“Congratulations. Personal growth before lunch.”
James Porter burst into laughter behind his fruit stand.
Ryan looked toward him.
James immediately became fascinated with his peaches.
Ivy gathered the money and counted it carefully. She wasn't embarrassed about needing it. Her rent was eleven days overdue, her refrigerator contained half a carton of milk, and the landlord of her small studio had already warned her about another late payment.
But she wouldn't accept pity.
Not even from a man who could probably purchase the entire square without checking his bank balance.
“You understand these paintings come without fancy certificates?” she asked.
“I understand.”
“And some frames are repaired.”
“I noticed.”
“And I'm not giving you my phone number just because you bought my work.”
Ryan's mouth moved slightly.
“I hadn't asked.”
“You looked like you might.”
For the first time, Ryan Adler laughed.
It was brief, low, and so unexpected that Marcus turned his head.
Ivy stared.
“Well, look at that. The expensive statue has a sense of humor.”
Ryan was still smiling when a little girl in pink approached the table.
“Miss Ivy?”
Ivy immediately softened.
“What's wrong, sweetheart?”
The girl pointed toward the painting of the tired hotel maid sitting barefoot on a bench.
“Is that lady sad?”
Ivy studied the canvas.
“Maybe she's tired.”
“Why did you paint her without shoes?”
“Because sometimes people spend so much time working for everybody else that they forget they're allowed to rest.”
The girl considered that.
Then she nodded as though Ivy had explained something important about life.
Ryan watched the exchange in silence.
He had attended charity galas where wealthy donors gave speeches about helping ordinary people.
None of those speeches had moved him as much as Ivy's simple answer.
When the little girl returned to her mother, Ryan looked at the portrait again.
“What's her name?”
“Elena Vega.”
“You know her?”
“She worked at the St. Elias Hotel. I painted her nine days ago.”
“Worked?”
Ivy hesitated.
“She stopped coming through the square.”
Something in her voice made Ryan look closer.
“Did she tell you why?”
“No. And before you ask, I don't interrogate everybody who sits for me.”
“Do you worry about her?”
“I worry about most people. It's an exhausting hobby.”
Ryan glanced toward the woman's portrait.
She sat with her bare feet touching the ground, her housekeeping shoes beside her, and a faded blue scarf around her neck.
Behind her, Ivy had painted a reflection in the hotel window.
A narrow strip of silver.
A man's silhouette.
Something Ryan couldn't quite identify.
“Why did you include that?” he asked, pointing.
“The reflection?”
“Yes.”
“Because it was there.”
“Who was the man?”
Ivy shrugged.
“Somebody passing behind me, I suppose.”
Ryan leaned closer.
The man's right hand appeared to be resting against the glass.
There was a dark shape around his wrist.
A watch.
Or a bracelet.
Ryan's expression changed.
He had seen that bracelet before.
Three days earlier.
On Lorenzo Vale's security chief.
Before he could examine the painting again, a sharp voice interrupted them.
“Miss Sanders!”
A man wearing a city enforcement jacket pushed through the small crowd.
Ivy's shoulders immediately stiffened.
“Oh, wonderful,” she muttered. “The government's here to improve my mood.”
The man held a clipboard.
“Your street-vending permit has been flagged for immediate review.”
Ivy frowned.
“That's funny. It was perfectly legal yesterday.”
“Step away from the display.”
“I'm not stepping anywhere until you explain what's wrong.”
The man reached for one of her frames.
Ryan caught his wrist.
“Don't touch her property.”
The officer looked up.
Then recognized him.
His face lost color.
“Mr. Adler. I wasn't aware—”
“Apparently, you aren't aware of several things.”
Marcus moved forward.
The man released the frame.
Ryan's voice remained quiet.
“Show me your identification.”
The officer looked toward the street.
It was a tiny movement.
But Marcus noticed.
So did Ryan.
A delivery truck suddenly honked beside the curb.
James shouted as a stack of wooden crates toppled near his fruit stand.
Peaches scattered across the pavement.
People jumped out of the way.
For three chaotic seconds, everyone turned.
Ivy rushed toward James.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, baby girl. Just my pride.”
When Ivy turned back, the enforcement officer was gone.
So was the truck.
And one of her paintings.
She stopped moving.
“Wait.”
Her eyes traveled across the display.
Seven canvases stood against the table.
Not eight.
The portrait of Elena Vega had vanished.
Ivy's stomach dropped.
“No.”
She searched behind the table.
Under the cloth.
Beside her supplies.
Nothing.
“No, no, no.”
Ryan was already speaking to Marcus.
“Find the truck.”
Marcus ran toward their car.
Leo followed.
Ryan turned back to Ivy.
“Stay here.”
She stared at the empty space where Elena's portrait had stood.
“Someone stole my painting.”
“I know.”
“In front of everybody.”
“I know.”
She turned on him.
“Your people were standing right here!”
The accusation struck harder than Ryan expected.
“Ivy—”
“Don't say my name like we're friends.”
James came around his stand.
“Sweetheart, maybe we should call the police.”
Ryan took out his phone.
“They're already being contacted.”
Ivy laughed bitterly.
“Of course they are. You probably have the police chief on speed dial.”
Ryan didn't deny it.
That made her angrier.
She had worked eleven years to build a business that wealthy tourists still treated like a hobby.
She had endured strangers making comments about her body, laughing at the size of her painting apron, and suggesting that a woman like her should be grateful for any attention.
But she had never felt as helpless as she did watching someone steal something she had created with her own hands.
“I want it back,” she said.
“You'll get it back.”
“You cannot promise that.”
Ryan met her eyes.
“No. But I can promise I won't ignore it.”
A sudden gust lifted the tablecloth.
Something white fluttered underneath.
Ivy bent down.
A folded piece of paper had been wedged beneath the wooden leg of the missing painting's easel.
She picked it up.
There were five words written in thick black ink.
ASK ADLER ABOUT THE WEST DOOR.
Ivy stopped breathing.
Ryan saw the change in her face.
“What is it?”
She didn't answer.
Instead, she slowly unfolded the paper.
A second message waited inside.
ELEVEN PEOPLE DIED BECAUSE THAT DOOR WAS CHAINED.
Below it was a date.
November 17.
Eleven years earlier.
Ryan felt the blood drain from his face.
Briar Street.
The fire.
The night his family had spent millions making certain the truth never reached a courtroom.
Ivy stepped backward.
Her hand shook so badly that the paper rustled.
“No,” she whispered.
Ryan reached toward her.
She jerked away.
“Don't touch me.”
“Ivy, listen—”
“Why would someone leave this?”
Ryan said nothing.
Ivy looked toward James.
His laughter had disappeared.
The old fruit seller stood beside his scattered peaches, staring at the note like a man facing a ghost.
“James?”
He swallowed.
“Baby girl, put that away.”
“Why?”
“Because some memories are dangerous.”
Ryan looked directly at him.
“You know about Briar Street.”
James's expression hardened.
“I was there the morning after.”
“And?”
James glanced at Ivy.
“Her daddy never came home.”
Silence settled between them.
Ryan looked at Ivy again.
Her eyes were shining, but she refused to cry.
“My father was Joseph Sanders,” she said. “He was an electrician. They blamed him for the fire.”
Ryan closed his eyes briefly.
He knew the name.
He had seen it in old legal files.
A man accused of faulty electrical work after eleven people burned to death inside the Briar Street Community Shelter.
A man who had died trying to save the people trapped inside.
A man whose reputation had been destroyed after his death.
Ivy held up the note.
“My father told the city that the west emergency exit was being kept locked. Three weeks before the fire, he filed a complaint.”
Ryan's breathing changed.
“Who told you that?”
“My mother.”
“Do you have the complaint?”
“No. It disappeared.”
Ryan looked away.
That answer was worse than he had expected.
Ivy studied him.
“You know something.”
“I know the building.”
“That's not what I asked.”
“Ivy—”
“Don't.”
Her voice cracked.
“Don't stand there in your thousand-dollar suit and tell me you understand what happened to my family.”
Ryan looked at her for a long moment.
Then he spoke.
“My father owned the company that controlled Briar Street.”
Ivy went completely still.
“Your father?”
“Arthur Adler.”
She took another step backward.
“No.”
Ryan didn't move.
“The shelter was part of a larger property acquisition.”
“My father died in that building.”
“I know.”
“And your family owned it?”
“Yes.”
Ivy looked at the money on her table.
The $2,400.
Suddenly, it seemed filthy.
She picked up the bills and pushed them against Ryan's chest.
“Take it.”
“Ivy—”
“Take your money.”
“I bought your paintings because I wanted them.”
“Did you know who I was?”
Ryan hesitated.
Only for a second.
But she saw it.
Her expression collapsed.
“Oh, my God.”
“I knew your last name. I didn't know your father's first name until James said it.”
“That's supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.”
For the first time that morning, Ryan Adler had no useful answer.
His phone rang.
Ethan Shaw.
Ryan ignored it.
It rang again.
Then Marcus called.
Ryan answered.
“Tell me.”
Marcus's voice came through sharply.
“We found the delivery truck. Abandoned behind a parking garage.”
“And the painting?”
“Gone.”
Ryan's jaw tightened.
“Any witnesses?”
“One. And, boss, there's something else.”
“What?”
Marcus paused.
“The thief left behind a city access card.”
Ryan waited.
“It was issued to someone inside Judge Walter Haskins's office.”
Ryan looked toward Ivy.
The judge he had been scheduled to meet that morning had just become connected to the theft.
Then Marcus delivered the final piece.
“Ethan called while we were searching. He said the judge wants you to destroy whatever was left at the artist's stand.”
Ryan looked at the note in Ivy's trembling hand.
“Why?”
Marcus lowered his voice.
“Because somebody has reopened the Briar Street investigation.”
Ryan ended the call.
Ivy stared at him.
“What did he say?”
Before Ryan could answer, James reached into his shirt pocket and removed an old, yellowed photograph.
He placed it on the table.
It showed the burning shelter eleven years earlier.
Firefighters crowded the sidewalk.
Smoke poured from the windows.
And standing near the chained west emergency exit was a younger Ryan Adler.
Ivy lifted the photograph.
Her voice was barely audible.
“Ryan.”
He looked at her.
She pointed toward the chain visible behind him.
“Tell me why you're standing outside the door where my father died.”
Ryan's face went white.
Because he recognized the photograph.
May you like
And he remembered something nobody else in Savannah knew.
He had been holding the key.
