Harlow Sinclair - POV
Marlowe Ashford's warehouse smelled like linseed oil and old wood, and for the first time in seven years, I wasn't cold.
"Prove it," he said again.
I set my bag on his work table. Hands shaking worse now than in the stairwell. Pulled out the external hard drive. Laptop. Everything felt too heavy. Too real.
"Julian has a workshop in Red Hook. Different location. He's been creating forgeries for at least ten years. I have the address. Photos of his setup. Chemical baths. Canvases in progress."
I opened a folder on my laptop. Found the scanned images I'd made in the other timeline. Right before everything went wrong. The provenance documents with watermarked paper. The Ashford family crest barely visible in the fibers.
Marlowe moved closer. Stared at the screen.
His jaw did something. Tightened. Released.
"Where did you get these."
Not a question. A demand.
"I found them." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "In his workshop. I've suspected for months. Started investigating quietly. Financial records led me to the location. I went after hours. Photographed everything before he realized I knew."
The lie tasted wrong but true enough. I had found them. Just in a timeline that didn't exist anymore.
"He confronted you?"
"Tonight. Told me I was making a mistake. That mistakes have consequences."
Marlowe was quiet. Studying me. The documents. Back to me like he was looking for cracks in my story.
"You're Julian's star authenticator," he said finally. "Built your whole reputation validating his gallery. Why should I believe you're not here setting me up for something worse?"
Fair. I'd think the same thing.
I pulled up more files. Bank transfers between Julian and known forgers. Emails about the Huntington scandal that mentioned Marlowe's name specifically. Plans to use Ashford watermarked paper for unimpeachable provenance.
"He stole fifty sheets from your family's archive eight years ago. Before you knew him. He's been planning this almost a decade. The Huntington forgeries were just the start. He used you to establish his own credibility. Made himself look like the honest dealer who exposed fraud while being the source."
Marlowe read through the emails. His expression didn't change but his breathing did. Shallow. Controlled.
"Your fiancée." I stopped. Started again. "Isabelle came to my mentor Catherine two weeks before she died. Asked questions about Julian's operation. Catherine sent her away. Told her to stop believing conspiracy theories. I was there. I heard it and didn't think anything was wrong because I trusted Julian completely."
Marlowe's hands pressed flat against the table. Too still.
"You were there."
"I didn't understand what it meant. Catherine never mentioned it after Isabelle died. But I remember. Your fiancée was close to something. Two weeks later she was gone."
The silence lasted too long. When Marlowe spoke, his voice was different. Colder.
"He didn't just frame me. He murdered Isabelle and framed me to cover it."
"Yes."
He looked at me with something I couldn't read. Respect maybe. Or calculation. Both.
"Why come to me? Why not police?"
"With what? Suspicious documents? Accusations against a respected gallery owner? Julian's spent ten years building relationships. Collectors. Museums. Law enforcement. He donates to NYPD charities. Sits on arts council boards. My word against his reputation is nothing."
I took a breath. Kept going.
"But you already tried exposing him. You have history. Motivation. You know how he operates."
"What exactly do you want?"
"Help me take him down. With evidence that can't be dismissed. Evidence that destroys him completely."
Marlowe walked to the window. Stood there looking at dark water beyond the warehouse. When he turned back, his face was all angles and shadows.
"Here's my offer. I'll help you destroy Julian Vance. But I don't trust you. You're either corrupt or incompetent or pathetically desperate for male approval. Probably all three. You'll work for me. Every authentication. Every meeting. Every move I design. You follow orders. When this is over, you disappear. New city. New identity. Out of the art world forever."
The words landed like punches. But at least they were honest.
"And if I refuse?"
"You die in forty days and Julian wins."
Simple. Brutal. True.
"One condition," I said. "I keep working at the gallery. Maintain my relationship with Julian publicly. He can't know I've turned until we have everything."
Marlowe's smile was mean. "You want to lie to a murderer while planning his destruction? Fine. But understand. I will use you exactly like Julian did. The only difference is I'm honest about it. You're trading one cage for another. At least I'm telling you where the bars are."
I met his eyes. Held them.
"I'm not looking for a savior. I'm offering to be your weapon."
Something crossed his face. Surprise. Then gone.
"Then we have a deal."
We shook hands. His grip was firm. Professional. Business transaction. My survival for his revenge.
"One more thing," he said. "That temperature sensitivity. The hot and cold around art. Julian called it a disorder?"
"He gave me medication. To control it."
"It's not a disorder." Marlowe's voice was matter of fact. Not gentle but not cruel. "It's synesthesia. Rare. Your body processes authenticity as temperature. Genuine pieces make you warm. Forgeries make you cold. Julian needed you dependent on his validation so you wouldn't trust what your body already knew. He medicated your gift because it threatened his entire operation."
Seven years. Seven years thinking I was broken.
"Why tell me this?"
"Because if we're destroying him, you need to trust yourself. That means trusting your gift. No more pills. No more doubting what you feel."
My phone buzzed. Then again. Again.
I pulled it out.
Sixty-three missed calls. All Julian.
The voicemails started automatically. First few were concerned. Worried even. Then irritated. Angry. By the end, something else.
The last one came through two minutes ago.
Julian's voice was too calm. Careful. "I know you've been lying, Harlow. The client viewing. The food poisoning. Whatever you think you're doing. Come to the gallery tomorrow. Noon. We need to discuss your commitment to our partnership. I'd hate for things to end badly. You know how much I value loyalty."
The message cut off.
I looked up at Marlowe.
"He knows something's wrong."
"How much does he know?"
"I don't know. But I have twelve hours."
Marlowe studied me. Really looked. Like he was measuring something.
"Can you do it? Look him in the eye and lie?"
I thought about seven years of believing his lies. Of dulling every instinct because he said they were wrong. Seven years being useful instead of free.
"Yes."
"You sure? Because if he suspects you've turned, he'll move faster. We need time. More evidence. You go tomorrow. Smile. Apologize. Be exactly what he shaped you into. Make him believe everything's fine."
"And if I can't?"
Marlowe didn't blink. "Then you're dead tomorrow instead of New Year's Eve. Faster at least."