Nothing says 'welcome home' like a twenty-foot nude painting of you and your ex, hanging off the facade of the local art museum and a beater Ford truck crammed full of illegal fireworks.

God bless America.

With a deep breath, I leaned against the grille to take it all in.

The museum was no Guggenheim, but it was no hole in the wall gallery either. Designed in a Greek revival style, six marble doric columns—no, maybe they were ionic—I would've paid more attention in my art history class had she not been sitting directly in front of me.

"Ionic, like a fancy capital I."

The lilt of her voice has grown distant in my memory, but the ghost of her fingertips tracing scrolls on my stomach made me shiver into my white-gold gown as I looked up at the columns lit against the night.

They were definitely ionic.

In between the columns hung five vinyl banners of unfinished paintings that were never meant to see a gallery wall, let alone lit up along the face of a building. Dissected and flayed nude figures stretched the length of them. Enough fabric draped the subjects to be permitted for the public eye while revealing just enough skin—and viscera—to grab your attention. Apparently, it had become a running theme with the museum's new art director. Sensationalize sex and the grotesque to get people in the door, no matter the artist's intention.

And there we were, front and center, eviscerated for all of Bay City to see. Artist and Model 13; Composition #17 according to the show card, but Artemisia had always called it Sunday Morning.

This all started with her. It felt fitting that it should end the same way.

One last heist.

"You sure you wanna go in there, Kirby?" Rafael's voice pulled my attention away from the banners. "You just got back into town. Maybe you better lay low for a while." He ran a hand through his dark tousled curls, giving me that look. The same look his sister would shoot my way when she needed to reel me back from the edge: blue eyes flashing beneath an arched brow, a single dimple dipping into her cheek.

Too bad he didn't get the dimple.

"It's her retrospective." I pushed up from the truck and smoothed out my dress. "I wanna pay my respects."

As he nodded, his curls fell over his heavy brow. "I'm sorry you never got to say goodbye properly."

"It was my own fault." The corners of my eyes started to prick, but now was no time to get sentimental. I had a full face of makeup caked on and a job to do. "I'm here now. I'm gonna make it right."

Before I got too emotional, I whipped around and hopped up onto the tire of his truck to distract myself with the array of explosives in the bed. Homemade roman candles. A string of firecrackers. M-80s. Cherry bombs. I grabbed one and stuffed it into my bra.

"Those are supposed to be for your surprise party." Rafael tugged at my waist and set me back down on the ground.

"You never know when you might need a distraction."

He eyed me suspiciously. "Felons don't get to play with my homemade fireworks." Carefully, he pinched the red fuse that stuck out between my boobs, pulling the Cherry bomb free to place it back with the others in the bed. He tossed me a box of Mega Crackers instead. "This is for your own good."

With a frown, I tucked them into my dress.

Offering up his arm, Rafael turned to the steep steps that led up to the museum. "Amuni."

Inside, marble columns mimicked the exterior ones, wrapping around the Renaissance Court. Dim amber string lights floated above the clusters of people dressed in black ties and gowns with drinks in hand. The art director had turned the opening night of Artemisia's retrospective into an invite-only fundraiser for suicide awareness and he was set to give opening remarks in less than ten minutes. Ushers were already moving people towards the event hall.

As Rafael tossed back a whole glass of whiskey, I pretended not to notice. We all had our own ways of grieving. I drew his attention across the court where a dark-haired man hid behind the guise of primping a floral arrangement, but his eyes were focused our way.

"Raf, why is Tall-Dark-and Handsome staring at you like he's seen you clutching your ankles, legs spread on the Pegasus backbar at three in the morning?"

"Hmm?" Rafael discreetly looked up through his broody brows. "Oh. He's definitely not looking at me."

To prove his case, Rafael stepped back towards the bar and ordered another drink. The guy continued to look my way even as a blonde woman approached him. On second glance, his dark features looked familiar, but the last thing I needed was to be recognized or catch someone's attention tonight. I needed to stay invisible. The crowd began to thin, leaving me exposed. I dipped behind a couple to use them as cover and joined Rafael at the bar.

"Was I right?" he asked.

I glimpsed back towards the stalks of foxglove and creamy peonies, but the guy was gone now. "Shame he wasted those smoldering eyes on me." In the eaves straight above, a security camera watched over the court. I made sure to keep myself positioned behind the lavish floral arrangement that anchored the end of the bar. Rafael slammed another whiskey and I tried not to worry. "You good, Raf?"

"Bonu, bonu. And getting better."

Out of the corner of my eye, the lone security guard walked along the galleries. His fingers dipped into the breast pocket of his gray uniform, heading towards the back.

"I'm uh, gonna sneak off to the bathroom real quick."

"They're just about to start—"

"I'll be quick, I promise."

While everyone filtered into the event hall, I crept towards the bathrooms, watching the guard as he took a seat at the edge of the court near the farthest gallery. He was itching for a smoke, likely waiting for the speech to begin so he could dip out. As I passed by the main gallery, I scanned the walls for our painting, but only recent work was displayed.

Across the hall, the art director took the stage. "Artemisia Cassini was more than just an artist. She was my beloved wife—my muse..."

"Oh please," I grumbled, pausing at a side door to watch.

Speaking to a packed room of nearly two hundred people, he naturally commanded the stage with ease and charisma. Tears glossed his striking green eyes as he played an Oscar-worthy martyred widow, eating up the spotlight in his burgundy Armani silk jacket.

But after every catch in his throat, every wipe of his eye, the corners of his mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile. He was enjoying this far too much.

I didn't waste another second listening to him.

Hurrying down the corridor, I entered the last gallery where a dozen of Artie's paintings from undergrad hung. Most of the models I recognized and there were a few of me solo from years ago, but the painting of us together was still nowhere to be seen. It seemed weird they wouldn't have the paintings they advertised in the main galleries, but it was odd they chose to showcase unfinished work to begin with.

My skin prickled with goosebumps as a wisp of cold air caressed the back of my neck, lingering like the breath of a kiss. I turned to see one of Artemisia's last self-portraits hanging in the center of the far wall by itself, like she was looking back to the beginning. Confronting the past.

The natural blue of her eyes she'd painted a steel gray, her smile worn thin, no hint of a dimple. The woman who stared back at me was practically a stranger, an apparition of the person I knew. Posed in a white wedding dress, heart in hand, she was locked away in her own personal prison while I had been locked abroad in a Parisian one.

I took one last look at her then exited the gallery, glancing back towards the Renaissance Court. The few staff members who weren't in the auditorium were busy restocking the bars. The security guard's chair now sat empty. If the painting wasn't in any of the galleries, there was a good chance it was in storage.

My eyes drifted along the back where the glow of amber lights faded to shadow. Red velvet stanchion posts roped off another dark hall. The guard's empty folding chair sat off to its side. The cameras above looked ancient compared to the upgraded ones in the main galleries. It seemed odd they were on different security systems. Offices and backstage of the auditorium were likely somewhere beyond, along with the collections room.

Cautiously, I stepped over the velvet rope then made my way down the dark corridor. Floor to ceiling window panels looked out into the arched portico that bordered the courtyard and sculpture garden. I hurried through their twilight glow, but stopped when I came to a door left ajar.

Reaching into my bra cup for my phone, I used its light to shine over the room as I crept inside. Line drawings of faces both ancient and modern hung from the interior of the white brick walls. The artist had meticulous notes along the borders, delineating measurements of facial features, bone structure, personal histories even. The technical illustrative quality reminded me of Artie's work, but where hers were emotive, these drawings were strictly scientific.

Intrigued by them no less, I waded deeper into the studio. It seemed the museum was offering some kinda artist-in-residency program. I wanted to at least find a name for my own curiosity. But as I turned towards the desk in the corner, two empty eye sockets stared back at me.

I nearly jumped out of my skin, scrambling to catch my phone before it hit the wooden floor. Shining it back in the corner, I crept closer towards the human skull that sat on the desk just as my phone began to vibrate with a call. Before I could look to see, the screen went black.

Dead.

Leaving me in the dark once again. I took that as a good sign to leave and snapped my phone shut, but an uneasiness tugged my eyes back to the skull. Beneath the light of the moon, its white bone glowed.

As I turned towards the door, I collided hard with another body. The force knocked me off my heels and both of us hit the ground. A soft voice cursed inches above my lips. Notes of spiced jasmine washed over me. My fingertips brushed against the unfamiliar skin on top of me as twisted locs of hair fell in my face. Both of us exchanged emphatic 'sorries' to one another, fading to an awkward lull as my heart raced beneath her.

"Well, I'm glad you're not Theodore," she laughed as she squeezed my arms, taking her time to move off from me.

"Theodore...?"

"My buddy over there is missing his body. I'm glad it wasn't him coming back for his head. They didn't give me a plus one for the fundraiser."

"Oh, shit," I laughed. Propping myself onto my elbows, I tried to squint up at her through the dark. "I guess he'll have to find some body else?" As I cringed, I caught the flash of her smile.

With a firm hand, she pulled me upright to sit. My eyes started to make out her features as the twilight filtered through the window, washing her dark skin in cool tones like a monochromatic portrait.

"Looks like I'm not the only one avoiding the party," she said as she swept her hair off to one side of her neck. An employee badge was clipped to her white lab coat, but I couldn't make out her name. "I didn't think anyone else was back here."

"Funny, neither did I," I muttered more to myself.

"Why are you back here? In my studio?"

Pushing to my feet, I ran a hand through my disheveled hair. My brain was trying to tell my body to run, but there was a major misfire between the signals as I held my hand out to help her up. "I uh, was looking for the bathrooms."

As I pulled her up, her dark eyes narrowed on mine. "You passed them. You know, when you climbed over the rope to get back here."

"Ahh, so I did..." I began to inch backwards towards the door. "I've had a little bit too much to drink tonight. Open bar. One too many G&T's, you know?"

"Do I know you? You look familiar."

"Oh, I'm uh, just a boring white woman. We all look the same." I shrugged, almost at the doorway. She clearly wasn't buying my bullshit. "I'll let you get back to avoiding the party."

"Wait," she clasped my arm. "You're her, aren't you? The woman in the paintings? With the artist they're honoring tonight?"

Pulling free, I slipped out the door and jogged down the hall. My heels echoed through the corridor as she called for me to stop, but I didn't look back. I clambered over the velvet rope and hurried towards the auditorium. The art director was wrapping up his speech. I snuck in through the side door and carefully weaved through the seats to reach Rafael.

"We gotta go."

"What? Why? What'd you do?"

My eyes scanned the doorways for the woman, but it didn't seem she'd bothered to follow me. "I'll explain on the way out."

"You didn't get it, did you?" Rafael whispered. "Sunday Morning?"

"You knew what I was doing?"

He gave me that look again. Of course he knew.

"I'll figure something out later. But we should—"

"Kirby, if you leave now, you'll lose the painting for good." Rafael nodded up to the stage where Sunday Morning and the four other paintings on the front of the museum illuminated the projector screen. "They're doing a pop-up auction."

My heart sunk as my eyes shifted over the paintings. The art director stopped mid-sentence as our eyes met. For that split second, I worried he'd recognized me. But with a subtle smile, he picked back up and continued onto his closing statement.

"It's obvious from Artemisia's work how enamored she was with anatomical illustration. As I read her final thoughts she penned for me, I knew what had to be done. Your donations tonight will not only benefit a suicide prevention non-profit, but proceeds from the auction will also go to a new venture I've invested in her name: The Association of Real Tissue Network. The ART Network, an organization that provides non-transplant tissue specimens to art schools."

As he thanked and released the audience, his eyes fell back over me. I still couldn't be sure if he recognized me or not, but I returned his smile this time with a slight nod. Staying invisible tonight was no longer an option.

"Raf," I tugged the sleeve of his suit as he stood up, "can you introduce me to Landon?"

His dark brows wrinkled in confusion. "I don't think that's smart. He's not going to just hand the painting over to you."

"I wanna book a private showing before the auction. I'm thinking a hands-on approach may prove to be more lucrative."

"He's dangerous, Kirby. You know he works for my father."

"What a coincidence, so did I," I murmured sarcastically. "Guess I'll have more in common with him than just fucking Artemisia."