As Desirae guided me down the hall, her fingertips felt feather-light against my hip, almost daring me to run. And maybe I could've. Instead, I found myself trying to decipher her intentions through the delicate touch of her fingers, the curve of her lips, and the gleam in her eyes.

"Hey Carl," she greeted the guard as he stood up from the wall.

"Leavin' the party so soon, Des?" He slid the end stanchion post to the side and gestured for us to walk through.

Dipping my head low, I ran a hand through my hair to hide my face as Desirae released me with a gentle push. I took advantage of the break in contact and inched my way down the hall.

"Just needed to get away from the crowd," Desirae replied, gliding her hand over my back to redirect me towards her studio. She turned back to the guard before opening her door. "Hey Carl, can I cash in that favor? If Landon comes looking, will you send him elsewhere?"

Carl's bushy brows furrowed, then slowly raised with insinuation and a nod as he roped off the hall again. Digging through his pockets, he pulled out a pair of headphones and stuffed them in his ears, taking his sentry position at the end of the hall.

As Desirae fumbled with the doorknob, I leaned against the wall, watching her stoic exterior fall to a fluster. "I don't know if you noticed," I whispered close to her neck, "but I think he thinks we're—"

She swung the door open with a bang and Carl twisted his head around to glance back our way. "Can you just get inside?" she urged, holding it open for me.

I didn't look to see if Carl was still watching, but I let my fingers tease across her stomach to play along as I slipped past her into the dimly lit studio.

"There's a sink in the corner there," she said coolly, shutting the door.

I took my time to walk over to it, studying the faces of the portraits I'd caught a glimpse of earlier. Other drawings of skeletal and muscular ecorches hung alongside them like pages from a medical book, but far less confined.

The sliding click of the lock pulled my attention back over to Desirae at the door and I couldn't help but smile. "You didn't have to spill a drink on me to get me alone, though I do appreciate grand gestures."

"Is that what you were up to earlier?" Her arms crossed over her chest, but a smile tugged at her lips. "Some grand gesture?"

"Something like that..." I turned the water on and dampened a wad of paper towels to blot out the wine, only to spread the stain further along the fabric. Bending over the utility sink, I tried to maneuver my chest beneath the faucet, but the depth of the basin made it difficult to reach. Desirae purred with a quiet laugh from across the room and I could only imagine I looked as stupid as I felt. With a sigh, I stood back up and leaned against the sink. "Are you gonna rat me out?"

"I haven't yet, have I?"

Why? I wanted to ask. She had the perfect opportunity with Landon. Instead, she had gone out of her way to put space between us, all while toying with me in the process. Not that I was complaining. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't enjoying the blurred boundary of her subtle subterfuge and flirtation.

I turned back towards the sink and plugged the drain to let the basin fill with water. Reaching around my back, I struggled to find the zipper behind the still attached price tags. My fingers gave up the fight for the clasp as warm hands slid my hair off to the side and unfastened the hook. As Desirae glided the zipper down between my shoulder blades, her breath on my neck sent a flush of heat through my body.

The warmth faded with her absence when she stepped away to rummage through a metal cabinet. I unzipped the dress completely, slipping my arms out of the straps to let it drop to the floor.

As I submerged the dress in the sink, I glanced over to the corner where the skull had sat earlier, but no eyes stared back at me. Looking around for it, I turned to see Desirae facing me with her lab coat draped over her arm.

She quickly dropped her eyes to the floor as she walked the coat over to me. "You are her, aren't you? Number thirteen?"

As I slid into the sleeves, she looked back up at me, staring hard at my face to search for the inevitable truth.

"You've tanned and dyed your hair dark—and it suits you well, helps you blend in, I'm sure." With a hum, she reached out to touch my chin, turning my face to an angle. "Your cheeks have thinned out and your nose slopes a little sharper now, but it's you. You're the woman in the painting with Artemisia."

"In the flesh," I murmured against her hand.

Her fingers slipped away from my jaw, returning to her chest to tease the chain of her necklace. "I didn't actually catch your name."

"It's Kirby."

"You didn't even make that up, huh?" With a smile, she spun a gold wedding band on her chain between her fingers. "So Kirby, I'm curious... What motive might an artist's model have for sneaking around the back halls of a museum, and then attempting to schmooze the skeevy art director who happens to be the widow of the aforementioned artist? 'Cause I have some theories."

Biting my lip, I debated whether or not to just tell her the truth. Best case scenario, she was sympathetic to my cause and could help. Worst case... I found myself in a cell by the end of the night. The latter was certainly not favorable. But the longer I stared back at her, the more I began to see she was hiding something too. I stepped closer to her, enough that I could feel the rise and fall of her chest, but she didn't yield.

"Well, Desi..." The sobriquet rolled with ease from my lips, earning a smirk from her. "How about you tell me why the skeevy art director got so defensive as soon as you waltzed our way?"

Her eyes lit up for the challenge, sinking into me as she let go of her necklace. "I received a call last month from the curator here who was cleaning out the storage room while Landon was away on a business trip. She'd found a skull tucked away on the shelves and was hoping I could draw up some sketches to get some kind of ID on it."

"So you're like a forensic artist?"

"It doesn't exactly pay the bills, but yeah, it's a sidegig."

The thought of her tied so closely to law enforcement made me rethink coming clean to her. Yet, as suspicious as she already was of me, here she was, sharing museum secrets.

"When Landon came back, he seemed overly invested in me and my work. He offered me a residency on the spot, was very persistent about taking me out to dinner, which I declined every time. I thought he was just being a creep, but then I learned that the skull was found with his late-wife's artwork."

"That honestly doesn't seem too weird for Artie," I assured her. "She was obsessed with memento mori motifs and often used skulls in her work. Even real cadavers. Just take a look at the galleries here."

"And I imagine she went through all the correct, legal channels to do so?"

I remained quiet.

She walked over to a display case and flipped a switch, lighting up the skull and a couple wrapped clay busts. "Unfortunately, my buddy Theodore—whose name likely isn't Theodore, is telling me otherwise. His skull was never stamped with a serial number that would tell which body-trading company he came from. In Artemisia's defense, it's a very unregulated market. These body brokers can hack up the dead any way they like and sell the body parts all over the world with impunity. It's a million dollar industry. But guess who just started up his own donation network?"

My stomach churned as his name left my mouth. "Landon Wilkinson."

"I don't know how, but he's tied to my buddy, here." She leaned against the wall as I continued to look over the skull. "Landon offered me this residency so he could keep an eye on me, not because the museum board is actually interested in my take of the mysterious skull. Although, they are giving me an exhibit next week to showcase my process. I just have to finish up the portrait busts and maybe do a couple different washes for the sketches I have."

An unfinished sketch taped to a drawing board sat propped on the incline of her desk. Desirae nodded for me to take a look and I took a seat at her desk.

"That's just the initial work-up with my notes," she explained. "When they gave me the slot for the show, I decided to go bigger with more detail."

The drawing was done in black ink on a thin, transparent sheet of textured plastic, layered with two others behind it. The unfinished layer on top portrayed the young man's actual features; the middle showed the anatomical facial muscles; and then behind it, a drawing of the skull itself. Everything lined up perfectly as a comprehensive overlay of the mystery man.

Studying the portrait on top, I couldn't stop fixating on the eye. There was a familiarity to it that I couldn't shake, but she had only completed one side of the face. "Just the skull alone gives you all these details?"

Desirae leaned over my shoulder to show me. "Skulls are like fingerprints, everyone's is unique. Like with any portrait, you look for the shapes and lines that are there and interpret how that translates to features. It's not a perfect science, but so much information can be extrapolated from a few subtle slopes in the bone. Things like sex, ancestry, age—it's all there." Her fingers trailed over the ridge of the brow with a tenderness. "If I could just get some kind of ID on this guy, I might be able to trace his steps and figure out how he ended up here on the back of a storage shelf. Maybe even link Landon into the case."

"Are all forensic artists this passionate about their cases?" I spun back around in the chair, nearly nose to nose with her, close enough to see the halo of amber around the deep umber of her eyes. "And I mean that as a compliment..." My voice fell hushed as her eyes drifted lower over my lips.

"I just want to know his name."

He was someone important to her. Not the actual identity himself, but who he symbolized.

"This is personal for you," I let the statement hang like a question, but I found the answer as I looked back up in her eyes.

"What if a piece of someone you loved ended up in the wrong hands? Wouldn't you want to get that back?"

She was searching for someone.

"Yeah, I would. I actually know exactly what that's like."

"That's why you're here, right?" There was no accusation in her tone this time. It felt genuine, empathetic even. "You're the only model Artemisia ever painted herself with. Not even her husband."

Evading the question, I looked around the room for the larger drawings she mentioned, but none of the faces on the wall matched the sketch on her desk. "Can you give me a sneak peek of your show next week?"

She nodded and walked over to the flat file cabinet. "There's a few variations I still want to draw up, and like I said, maybe add a wash or two." Sliding out a drawer along the top, she pulled out a couple large sheets of paper and clipped them to the wall mount. "I obviously can't tell skin tone from the skull so I'm always hesitant to add color, but there are indicators that suggest a mixed ancestry."

As I stared into Desirae's rendition of the young man's sharp eyes, the familiarity I felt earlier suddenly hit me with pure recognition.

"We start with the three main groups," she continued, "European, African, and Asian, then work out from there. But the bone landmarks and indicators start changing the more the ancestry is mixed of course. From what I can tell, his was likely African or maybe—"

"Native American." My eyes darted around the room as I tried to find a clock, unsure how much time had passed since we'd left Landon.

"Good guess. The skull shape and size are pretty similar between the two, as is the shape of the orbits, though the Native group tends to be a little more of a rounded rectangle—"

"Des, what time is it?"

"I'm sorry," she scoffed. "Am I boring you now?"

"Not in the least," I replied genuinely as I rushed towards the sink. "Do you have keys to the back room of the auditorium?"

"No. And even if I did—" Her face scrunched with confusion as she followed. "Kirby, what's your issue?"

Ringing out my dress, I sighed in relief that the stain had rinsed clean. I slipped out of Desirae's lab coat and hastily tossed it back to her. As I wiggled into my dress, the damp fabric clung to my skin, sending a chill down my spine.

"Kirby, I get it. I can tell Artemisia meant something to you, but I can't just let you take that painting. Not like this. Let's just go to the auction and—"

"That's not what I want." I whipped past her again to get to her desk. "Well, okay, that was what I originally wanted, but you're right." Swiping a couple paperclips from her drawer, I turned back to her. "Landon is linked to this somehow. And I think I can ID your guy."