I held my breath, my fingers still touching the warm plastic of the pulsing phone.

Footsteps echoed down the concrete corridor, slow and deliberate.

I slipped the palette knife into my apron pocket.

The heavy wooden door of the studio creaked as it was pushed inward.

Marcus Vance stood in the doorway, wearing a damp wool coat and carrying a thick leather portfolio.

He blinked against the bright halogen lights of the studio.

“The street doors were unlocked, Emily,” Marcus said, pulling off his leather gloves.

“I forgot to bolt the deadbolt,” I said, my chest still tight.

He looked at the large canvas in the center of the room.

“You look like you haven’t slept in forty-eight hours,” he said.

“I haven’t,” I replied, pulling my hair back into a messy knot.

Marcus was one of the few gallery owners in Chicago who didn’t owe his career to Daniel’s foundation.

He walked over to the desk, his eyes fixing on the pulsing red light of my phone.

“What is that?” he asked.

“A warning,” I said.

I reached down and tapped the screen.