Canvas of Shadows

I pressed my back against the cold brick wall as police sirens wailed past the alley, my heart hammering against my ribs as I clutched the spray can that could send me back to jail.

The mural behind me was still a phoenix rising from ashes in brilliant reds and golds, its wings spreading across the entire side of the abandoned warehouse. It was my best work yet, which made the possibility of getting caught even more bitter.

"Damn it, Lucy, "Why can't you just paint on canvas like normal people?"

But I knew the answer. Normal people didn't grow up bouncing between foster homes. Normal people didn't learn that walls were the only things you could trust not to abandon you.

I waited another five minutes before stepping out of the shadows. The streets of Chicago's South Side were empty except for a homeless man digging through a dumpster and a stray cat that watched me with intelligent eyes.

My phone buzzed as I walked toward the train station.

"You get home safe?" Tommy's voice was rough with worry.

"Still in one piece."

"Good. I saw the cops heading toward the warehouse district. Figured you might be painting again."

Tommy Walsh had been my closest friend for three years, ever since we'd met at a community art program for "at-risk youth." He was the only person who knew about my midnight painting sessions, and definitely the only one who cared enough to worry.

"I'm fine, Tommy. Just heading home."

"Lucy, you can't keep this up. One of these days—"

"One of these days what? I'll get caught and go back to jail? At least in jail I get three meals a day."

The silence on the other end told me I'd hurt him. Tommy had been trying to get me to apply for legitimate gallery showings for months, but I wasn't ready for that kind of rejection.

"Sorry," I said. "Long night."

"It's okay. Just... be careful, all right? You're too talented to waste away in prison."

After we hung up, I stared at my reflection in the train window as we rattled through the city. Twenty-six years old, brown hair that hadn't seen a professional stylist since I was seventeen, clothes from thrift stores, and paint under my fingernails that never completely washed out.

I looked exactly like what I was—a nobody.

Fifteen years earlier

"Lucy, sweetheart, this is the Hendersons.

I stared at the social worker's fake smile and the middle-aged couple behind her. The Hendersons were my fourth foster family in two years. The woman looked kind, but they all did at first.

"Can I bring my art supplies?"

"We'll see, dear. Let's focus on getting you settled first."

I learned that night that "we'll see" meant no. Just like "temporary placement" meant I'd be moving again in six months. Just like "forever family" was a lie adults told children to make themselves feel better about the system that chewed up kids like me.

That's when I started drawing on walls. If I couldn't take my art with me, I'd leave it behind for someone else to find.

My studio apartment was a generous term for the converted storage room I rented for four hundred dollars a month. It had a window, running water, and enough space for a mattress and easel.

I dumped my backpack on the floor and headed straight for the mini-fridge. The leftover Chinese food from three days ago looked questionable, but I was too tired to walk to the corner store.

That's when I saw it—a cream-colored envelope that had been slipped under my door.

My name was written on the front in elegant script: Ms. Lucy Carter.

Nobody sent me mail. Nobody even knew where I lived except Tommy and my landlord.

I opened it with shaking hands.

*Dear Ms. Carter,

Your work has come to our attention, and we would like to invite you to display three pieces at the Ashford Gallery's upcoming "Emerging Voices" exhibition. This is a rare opportunity for unknown artists to showcase their work alongside established professionals.

If you are interested, please contact me at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely, Victoria Ashford Director, Ashford Gallery*

I read it three times before the words sank in.

The Ashford Gallery. I'd walked past it a hundred times, always stopping to stare at the paintings in the windows. It was the kind of place where single pieces sold for more money than I made in a year.

And they wanted to display my work.

I looked around my pathetic excuse for a studio—at the canvases stacked against the walls, the paintings I'd never shown anyone except Tommy. They were good, I knew that. But good enough for the Ashford Gallery?

My phone rang.

"Lucy? You sound weird. What's wrong?"

"Tommy, I need you to come over. Now."

"Why? What happened?"

I stared at the invitation, my hands trembling slightly. "I think my life just changed."

Twenty minutes later, Tommy was pacing around my tiny apartment, the invitation in his hands.

"This is incredible, Lucy. This is exactly what I've been telling you about."

"It doesn't make sense. How did they even know about my work? I've never shown anywhere legitimate."

"Maybe someone saw your street art. Maybe they tracked you down."

"maybe its scam."

Tommy stopped pacing. "Lucy, listen to yourself. You're so scared of success that you're looking for reasons to turn down the opportunity of a lifetime."

"I'm not scared of success. I'm scared of failure."

I took the invitation back and stared at Victoria Ashford's signature. Something about this felt wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on what.

"What if I'm not good enough? What if I show up and they realize they made a mistake?"

"What if you don't show up and spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been?"

I looked at Tommy—really looked at him. He'd been encouraging my art for years, believing in me when I couldn't believe in myself. He'd never steered me wrong before.

"You think I should do it."

"I think you'd be crazy not to."

I walked to my easel and pulled the sheet off my latest painting—a self-portrait where half my face was hidden in shadows while the other half was illuminated by street lights. It was raw and honest in a way that made me uncomfortable, which probably meant it was good.

"What if they want to change me? Make me paint pretty flowers instead of real life?"

"Then you say no. But Lucy, you have to at least try."

I held the invitation up to the light, looking for watermarks or signs that it was fake. But the paper was expensive, the letterhead embossed, everything about it screaming legitimacy.

"Okay," I said finally. "I'll call them tomorrow."

"Really?"

"Really. But if this turns out to be some elaborate human trafficking scheme, I'm blaming you."

Tommy laughed, but I wasn't entirely joking. In my experience, good things didn't just happen to people like me. There was always a catch, always a price to pay.

I just hoped I could afford whatever Victoria Ashford was going to ask for in return.