Chapter 1: The Gallery

The morning light streaming through the tall windows of Meridian Gallery made everything look perfect. I stood in the center of my domain, coffee in hand, watching dust particles dance in the golden beams. After fifteen years in the art world, I still got that little thrill seeing my gallery like this—quiet, elegant, waiting for the day to begin.

"Elena, the Times critic is here early," Thomas called from the front desk. My assistant's voice carried that nervous edge it always got when important visitors arrived unannounced.

I smoothed my black blazer and walked toward the entrance. Margaret Chen from the New York Times stood studying our featured piece—a haunting oil painting of Ophelia drowning, her pale dress billowing in dark water. The artist had captured Shakespeare's doomed character with such raw emotion that viewers often stopped mid-sentence when they first saw it.

"Ms. Chen, what a pleasant surprise," I said, extending my hand. "I didn't expect you until this afternoon."

"I wanted to see the collection without the opening night crowd," she replied, her sharp eyes never leaving the painting. "This piece is quite... intense. Tell me about your curatorial choices for this exhibition."

I moved to stand beside her, seeing the painting through fresh eyes. "Classical themes of tragedy and beauty have always fascinated collectors. There's something about these timeless stories that speaks to our deepest emotions. This particular piece explores the thin line between despair and transcendence."

"And you're not concerned about the subject matter? Given recent events in the news?"

I frowned. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"The Canvas Killer case. Surely you've been following it? The FBI released new details yesterday about how the killer poses his victims to recreate famous paintings. Some people might find it unsettling to see tragic classical scenes right now."

My stomach tightened. I'd been so focused on preparing for the exhibition that I'd barely glanced at the news lately. "I don't see any connection between celebrating classical art and some madman's twisted crimes. Art shouldn't be censored because evil people exist."

Margaret nodded thoughtfully, making notes in her phone. "Of course. Can you tell me about this Rothschild piece in the corner? The documentation says it's on loan from a private collector."

I led her to the smaller canvas—a dark painting of Judith holding Holofernes' severed head, her expression both triumphant and haunted. "Dr. Julian Rothschild has been my mentor since graduate school. He has an extraordinary eye for finding these hidden masterpieces. This piece was recently authenticated as being from the workshop of Artemisia Gentileschi."

"Rothschild... the name sounds familiar."

"He's written several books on classical mythology in Renaissance art. Brilliant man. He's been like a father to me since I started in this business."

We spent another twenty minutes discussing the exhibition. Margaret asked thoughtful questions about each piece, and I found myself relaxing into the familiar rhythm of talking about what I loved most. When she left, promising a positive review, I felt that familiar surge of satisfaction. Another successful show, another step forward in building my reputation.

Thomas appeared at my elbow with a stack of messages. "Dr. Rothschild called twice this morning. He sounds excited about something. Also, that Russian collector, Natasha Volkov, wants to schedule another appointment. She's very interested in acquiring more pieces with mythological death scenes."

"Good. Schedule her for next week. And call Dr. Rothschild back—tell him I can meet him for lunch if he's free."

The rest of the morning flew by in a blur of client calls and paperwork. I was reviewing insurance documents when Thomas knocked on my office door, looking pale.

"Elena, you need to see the news."

He held out his tablet, and I found myself staring at a headline that made my blood run cold: "Canvas Killer Claims Fifth Victim—FBI Releases Crime Scene Details." Below the headline was a photograph that stopped my breath entirely.

The victim, a young woman with dark hair, had been posed exactly like the Ophelia painting hanging in my gallery. Every detail was perfect—the flowing dress, the flowers scattered in her hair, even her peaceful expression. It was as if someone had used our featured piece as a blueprint for murder.

"My God," I whispered, sinking into my chair.

"There's more," Thomas said quietly. He scrolled down to show additional photos. "The article mentions that investigators are looking into connections between the crime scenes and known artworks. They think the killer might be getting inspiration from gallery exhibitions."

My hands were shaking as I read the article. The FBI was asking the public to report any suspicious interest in classical paintings depicting death or tragedy. They wanted to hear from gallery owners, museum curators, anyone who dealt with this type of art.

"This is just a coincidence," I said, more to myself than to Thomas. "Millions of people know that painting. It's been reproduced in art books for centuries."

But even as I said the words, I felt a chill running down my spine. The resemblance was too perfect, too exact. Someone had studied our painting very carefully to recreate it so precisely.

My phone rang, startling me. Dr. Rothschild's name appeared on the screen.

"Elena, my dear, have you seen the news?" His familiar voice was filled with concern. "I'm worried about you. This terrible business with that madman copying classical paintings—people might get the wrong idea about your gallery."

"Julian, I just saw it. What should I do?"

"Stay calm. This has nothing to do with you or your work. Art has always been copied by disturbed individuals. Remember when that man in Europe was imitating Van Gogh? These things pass. Don't let fear destroy what you've built."

His steady voice helped calm my racing heart. Julian had guided me through every major decision in my career. If he wasn't worried, maybe I was overreacting.

"You're right. It's just shocking to see something so close to our exhibition."

"I'll come by this afternoon. We should discuss whether to make any changes to the show, just to be safe. In the meantime, don't talk to any reporters about this. Let me handle any inquiries."

After hanging up, I sat staring out the window at the busy Manhattan street. People walked by, going about their normal lives, unaware that somewhere in this city, a killer was using classical art as inspiration for murder.

I had no idea that my name was already on an FBI list.