The third pink slip this month landed on my kitchen counter like a death sentence.
"We're restructuring," my manager at the tutoring center had said, not even looking me in the eye. "Nothing personal, Lily."
Right. Nothing personal about being broke in San Francisco, the most expensive city in America.
I crumpled the paper and threw it at my overflowing trash can. Missed. Of course I did. I couldn't even get fired properly.
My phone buzzed with a text from my landlord: Rent was due yesterday. Pay by tomorrow or start packing.
Perfect. Just absolutely perfect.
I looked around my studio apartment—if you could even call it that. It was basically a closet with a hotplate. The walls were covered with my paintings that nobody wanted to buy. The floor was covered with bills I couldn't pay. And my pride was covered with the thick layer of failure that seemed to follow me everywhere.
Three years since art school. Three years of "you have so much potential, Lily!" Three years of nothing.
My phone rang. Nana Rose's name lit up the screen.
"Hi, Nana Rose," I answered, trying to sound less pathetic than I felt.
"Lily dear, are you busy today?"
I looked at my schedule. It was completely empty, just like my bank account. "Not really."
"Perfect! I need someone with an art background for a special job. Two days of work, cash payment."
"How much?"
"Five hundred dollars."
I sat up so fast I knocked over my coffee. "Are you serious?"
"Have I ever joked about money, dear? There's an estate sale in Pacific Heights. The family needs someone to evaluate the art collection before the sale. Separate the valuable pieces from the junk."
Pacific Heights. Where the rich people lived. Where people had art collections instead of credit card debt.
"When?"
"Today at four. Can you make it?"
"Yes! Absolutely! Thank you so much, Nana Rose."
"Thank me by doing a good job. Oh, and Lily? Wear something nice. These people judge everything."
After hanging up, I ran to my closet. Something nice. Right. I owned three pairs of paint-stained jeans and a collection of thrift store t-shirts. After digging through everything, I found one black skirt that wasn't wrinkled and a white button-down shirt with only one small coffee stain.
Good enough.
At exactly 3:45, I stood outside the biggest house I'd ever seen. It looked like a wedding cake made of marble and money. The doorbell probably cost more than my car.
A woman answered the door. She had that rich person look—like she was constipated but trying to hide it behind expensive makeup.
"You must be the art evaluator," she said, looking me up and down. Her expression said I'd already failed some test.
"Lily Chen," I said, trying to sound professional.
"Patricia Morrison. The studio is on the third floor. Everything needs to be categorized by tomorrow evening. Keep, sell, donate, trash."
She led me up a staircase that belonged in a museum. The walls were covered with paintings that made my student work look like kindergarten finger painting.
"This was my father's studio," Patricia said, opening a door at the end of the hallway. "He died last month. We need to clear it out for the sale."
The studio took my breath away.
It was huge—bigger than my entire apartment building. Canvases leaned against every wall. Sculptures sat on pedestals like frozen dancers. The afternoon sun poured through a massive skylight, turning dust particles into gold glitter.
"I'll leave you to it," Patricia said, already walking away. "Don't steal anything. We have cameras."
Charming.
I started working, photographing each piece and making notes. Most of the art was decent but boring. Landscape after landscape of the same hills. Still lifes of fruit that looked like plastic. The kind of art rich people bought because it matched their couch.
But something felt weird. Like when you know someone's watching you but you can't see them.
I was examining a particularly ugly painting of the Golden Gate Bridge when I noticed it was too heavy. Way too heavy for its size.
My heart started racing. I flipped it over and ran my fingers along the frame. There was a seam in the backing that shouldn't exist.
I carefully pried it open.
Hidden between the canvas and the frame was a small leather diary wrapped in old cloth. My hands shook as I opened it.
The first page made me sit down hard on a dusty chair.
Property of Hanako Nakamura Chen
Chen. That was my grandmother's last name. But Nakamura? I'd never heard that name in our family.
I flipped through the pages. The entries were from 1942, written in neat handwriting that got messier as they went on.
May 15, 1942
Tomorrow they take us to the camps. J.B. says he'll protect the paintings, but how can I trust anyone now? I've hidden Mama's collection across the city. If we don't come back, if we never come back, I'm leaving clues for our family to find. The lotus where the sun sets twice. Remember that.
My grandmother had been in the internment camps. She'd been an artist. She'd hidden paintings worth... I couldn't even imagine.
"Find anything interesting?"
I jumped so hard I almost dropped the diary. A guy stood in the doorway—tall, messy brown hair, green eyes behind wire-frame glasses. He wore a leather jacket that had seen better days and jeans that actually fit properly.
"Just doing my job," I said, sliding the diary into my bag as casually as possible.
"I'm Ryan Torres," he said, stepping into the room. "Grad student at San Francisco State. I'm researching post-war artists for my thesis. Patricia said someone was cataloging the collection."
"Lily Chen." I stood up, super aware of the diary in my bag.
"Chen?" His eyes sharpened. "Any relation to the Nakamura-Chen gallery in Japantown?"
My blood went cold. How did he know that name?
"Chen's a common name," I said.
"True." But he kept looking at me, like he was trying to solve a puzzle. "Well, if you find anything about local artists from the forties, I'd love to know."
He handed me a business card. Our fingers touched for a second, and I felt this weird electric shock. Not the painful kind. The kind that makes you want to touch again.
"Sure," I managed.
He smiled, and it changed his whole face. Made him look younger, less serious. Kind of beautiful, actually.
No. Stop it, Lily. Focus.
After he left, I finished cataloging as fast as possible. I needed to get home and figure out what this diary meant.
That night in my apartment, I spread the diary pages on my bed. Each entry was a clue, talking about hidden art using weird phrases I didn't understand.
I googled "Hanako Nakamura San Francisco 1942" and nearly threw up when I saw the results.
Pictures of Japanese American families being forced from their homes. Kids carrying dolls while soldiers with guns watched. And there, in one photo, was a young woman who looked exactly like the grandmother I remembered.
The caption said: Hanako Nakamura, age 22, promising artist forced to abandon her gallery.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
Stop digging or you'll regret it.
I stared at the message, fear and excitement mixing in my stomach. Someone knew I had the diary. Someone was watching.
Another text came through. This one from Ryan Torres.
I know who your grandmother really was. We need to talk.