Harlow Sinclair -POV
Marlowe taught me how to lie to a murderer over coffee and cold calculation at six in the morning.
"Why are you consulting with me?" His voice shifted. Became Julian's smooth cadence.
"To diversify my expertise. Expand my network."
"Try again. You sound defensive."
"I'm expanding my authentication capabilities. Learning recovery methods. It makes me more valuable."
"Better. But add ego. Make it about him."
My throat was already raw. We'd been doing this for hours. The warehouse was freezing but sweat stuck my shirt to my back.
I started over. "You always said I should learn from the best. Marlowe has techniques I've never encountered. Understanding how forgers think helps me identify their work. It protects your gallery's reputation."
Marlowe nodded. "That's it. Feed his ego. Make your betrayal sound like devotion."
"What if he asks about us? The gallery opening. People saw."
"What did they see?"
"Us. Together. Talking."
"No. They saw potential. Professional connection that could become more. Julian kept you lonely on purpose. Use it. Tell him Marlowe reached out. That you were flattered but it's professional. For now."
The way he said for now made something twist in my stomach.
By the time I left for lunch, my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
The restaurant was expensive. Too quiet. White tablecloths and hushed conversations.
Julian was already there. Not alone.
The man across from him looked older. Sharp suit. Eyes that assessed me before I even reached the table.
"Harlow." Julian stood. Kissed my cheek. His cologne was too strong. "This is Viktor Volkov. Viktor, this is Harlow Sinclair. The authenticator I mentioned."
Viktor didn't stand. "The prodigy."
I sat. The chair felt too hard. Too exposed.
"Viktor is very interested in your process," Julian said. "He's investing significantly. Two hundred million. He wants to understand how we guarantee authenticity."
Not lunch. An audition.
"Temperature sensitivity," I said. Kept my voice level. "Combined with traditional provenance research. I have a physiological response. Genuine pieces make me warm. Forgeries make me cold. It's documented. Synesthesia."
Viktor's face didn't move. "Useful. If accurate."
"Ninety-eight percent over seven years."
"Impressive." He looked at Julian. "And she's the one working with Marlowe Ashford?"
Everything stopped.
Julian's smile stayed perfect. "Consulting. Briefly. Harlow is always expanding her skills."
"Is that what it is?" Viktor's eyes came back to me. "Skill expansion?"
This was it. The trap Marlowe drilled me for.
"Marlowe contacted me three weeks ago." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "He's developing authentication techniques for recovered art. Pieces with questionable provenance. I was curious. Julian always encouraged learning from different experts. Understanding forgers makes me better at identifying their techniques."
I looked at Julian. Let vulnerability show. "It's professional. But I should have mentioned it sooner. I didn't think it mattered."
Julian studied me. Too long. My pulse hammered so hard I thought he could see it.
Then he smiled. "Harlow is ambitious. One of her best qualities. As long as her loyalties remain clear."
"And do they?" Viktor asked.
"Absolutely." I met his eyes. "Julian gave me everything. My career. My reputation. I wouldn't exist without him."
The words were ash on my tongue but true enough.
Viktor nodded. Satisfied apparently. "Then we proceed. Tomorrow. 2 PM. I want to see this sensitivity in action."
After he left, Julian ordered wine. Something expensive I didn't recognize.
"That went well," he said.
"I should have told you about Marlowe earlier."
"It's fine. Though I'm curious why he reached out. Marlowe doesn't do anything without motive."
"Maybe he's lonely."
Julian laughed. Actually laughed. "Marlowe Ashford isn't capable of loneliness. He's capable of revenge. Obsession. Using people." He leaned closer. "Be careful. Marlowe destroys anyone who gets too close. Including you."
The concern sounded real. Would have fooled me before.
"I'm careful."
"Good. Because tomorrow matters. Your authentication will define your legacy. Viktor has connections. Museums. Auction houses. International galleries. If he's satisfied, your career becomes limitless."
If I authenticate fifteen forgeries. If I lie for thirty-seven more days.
"I won't disappoint you."
"I know."
Walking home, the cold felt different. Sharper. The November wind cut through my coat but underneath something else shifted.
Then the world split.
Not the ground. Inside my head. Reality fracturing.
Julian's penthouse. New Year's Eve. Flames. Screaming.
But wrong. Layered. Three images bleeding together.
Julian on the floor. Blood spreading. Eyes empty.
No. Marlowe falling backward. Fire catching his coat. Face twisted.
No. Me. Burning. Alone. Door locked. Just like before.
The visions wouldn't hold still. Kept shifting. Overlapping. Julian dead Marlowe dead me dead all three happening at once in different versions of the same moment.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't separate which was real.
The world snapped back.
I was on my knees on the sidewalk. People walking past not looking.
My phone was buzzing.
Unknown number: "Stop investigating Julian or more than you will burn. We're watching."
My hands shook. Screen blurring.
Second text. Same number.
A photo.
Marlowe. Entering his warehouse. Timestamp twenty minutes ago.
They knew. Everything. Where he lived. What we were doing.
I texted him: "CARAVAGGIO"
Our danger code from this morning.
Nothing.
I called.
Straight to voicemail.
Called again.
Voicemail.
I ran. Subway to Red Hook. Every second stretched. Phone silent. No response. No explanation.
Thirty-seven days.
And Marlowe was gone.
The warehouse was dark. No lights anywhere. The door that was always unlocked was locked.
I buzzed the intercom. Nothing.
Pounded on the door. "Marlowe!"
Silence.
His phone went to voicemail again.
Then I saw it.
Something dark on the door handle. Could be rust. Could be old paint.
I touched it.
Wet.
My hand came away red.
Blood. Fresh enough to still be sticky.
I couldn't think. Couldn't call anyone. Just stood there staring at my red fingers trying to remember which vision was real.
Julian dead. Marlowe dead. Me dead.
Someone was burning in thirty-seven days.
I just didn't know who.