Chapter 3: The Nightmare Begins

The headline screamed from every newsstand I passed: "CANVAS KILLER'S ART DEALER: FBI Investigates Gallery Owner's Role in Serial Murders." My photograph—pulled from the gallery's website—stared back at me from newspaper boxes and magazine covers. In the photo, I was smiling, standing next to a painting of a beautiful woman dying tragically. Now that same image looked sinister, like evidence of guilt.

I pulled my hood up and hurried toward Meridian Gallery, but a crowd was already gathered outside. Reporters, protesters, curiosity seekers—all of them wanting a piece of the woman they'd decided was helping America's most notorious killer.

"There she is!" someone shouted as I approached the building.

Cameras flashed. Microphones were shoved toward my face. Questions came from all directions:

"Are you The Canvas Killer's accomplice?"

"How long have you been helping him select victims?"

"Do you feel responsible for those women's deaths?"

I pushed through the crowd, keys shaking in my hands as I tried to unlock the gallery door. Someone grabbed my arm—a middle-aged woman with tears streaming down her face.

"My daughter was twenty-three," she said, her voice breaking. "She looked just like that painting in your window. Did you help him pick her? Did you help him kill my baby?"

The pain in her eyes hit me like a physical blow. "I'm sorry for your loss, but I had nothing to do with—"

"Murderer!" she screamed. "You're a murderer!"

The crowd took up the chant. "Murderer! Murderer!" I finally got the door open and stumbled inside, slamming it behind me. Through the glass, I could see the mob of faces, all filled with hatred for me.

Thomas was inside, looking terrified. "Elena, the phone hasn't stopped ringing. Death threats, reporters, people demanding we close down. The insurance company called—they're threatening to cancel our policy."

I slumped against the door, suddenly exhausted. "What are people saying?"

He handed me a stack of newspapers and magazines. The coverage was brutal. Every publication had found the most sinister-looking photos of me and my gallery. Art experts were being interviewed about how a gallery owner could assist a serial killer. Criminal profilers were discussing my "obvious obsession with death imagery." Former clients were being quoted about my "unusual interest" in violent classical themes.

"Listen to this," Thomas said, reading from his phone. "This is from a cable news show this morning: 'Elena Vasquez has spent fifteen years surrounding herself with images of beautiful women dying. Her gallery specializes in classical paintings depicting murder, suicide, and tragedy. Is it any wonder she'd be drawn to help someone recreate these scenes in real life?'"

"That's not fair," I whispered. "Classical art has always included tragic themes. It's not about violence—it's about human emotion and storytelling."

"The public doesn't care about context anymore," Thomas said sadly. "They want someone to blame."

My lawyer, Patricia Wells—recommended by Dr. Rothschild—arrived an hour later. She was a sharp-faced woman in an expensive suit who specialized in high-profile criminal defense cases.

"Elena, we need to talk about damage control," she said, settling into my office chair. "The FBI leaked enough information to make you look guilty without actually charging you with anything. It's a classic pressure tactic."

"But I haven't done anything wrong."

"That doesn't matter. Public opinion has already convicted you. We need to get ahead of this narrative before it destroys any chance you have at a fair trial."

"Trial? They're actually going to charge me?"

Patricia's expression was grim. "The prosecutor, Harrison Kane, is ambitious. This case could make his career. He's going to push for charges unless we can prove definitively that you're innocent."

She opened her briefcase and pulled out a thick file. "I've been researching the case against you. It's circumstantial but damaging. Five crime scenes that perfectly match paintings from your gallery. Your detailed catalog essays that could serve as instruction manuals for recreating the scenes. Your client base that includes collectors specifically interested in death imagery."

"Lots of people could have access to that information. My catalogs are public. Anyone can read my essays online."

"True, but you're the common denominator. You're the one with the expertise and the access. And Elena..." She hesitated. "There are witness statements."

My blood went cold. "What kind of witness statements?"

"Your ex-husband, David. He's told investigators about your 'obsession with violent art' and your 'morbid fascination with death scenes.' He claims you used to have nightmares about the paintings, that you'd wake up talking about tragic female figures."

I stared at her in disbelief. "That's not true. I never... David's lying. We had a bitter divorce, but why would he say those things?"

"People say lots of things when the FBI comes asking questions. Sometimes they remember events differently than they actually happened."

The rest of the day passed in a blur of legal strategy and damage control. Patricia explained that the FBI was building a case around me being the killer's artistic consultant—someone who provided expertise and inspiration without necessarily being present at the murders. It was a theory that explained the sophistication of the crime scenes while making me complicit in twenty-three deaths.

That evening, I sat in my apartment with all the curtains drawn, afraid to go outside. The news was running my story constantly. Crime documentaries were already in production. Online forums were filled with people dissecting my life, my relationships, my every public statement about art.

My phone rang. Dr. Rothschild's familiar voice was a lifeline in the chaos.

"My dear, how are you holding up?"

"Julian, this is a nightmare. They're treating me like I'm already guilty."

"I've been following the coverage. It's shameful how quickly people rush to judgment. But Elena, I'm concerned about something. Have you considered that someone might be deliberately framing you?"

The thought had occurred to me, but it seemed too far-fetched. "Who would do something like that?"

"Think about it. Someone with deep knowledge of classical art. Someone who knows your work intimately. Someone who's been studying your exhibitions and using them to perfect these horrible crimes."

"But why frame me specifically?"

"Perhaps because you're successful. Perhaps because you're vulnerable—a single woman without powerful connections. Or perhaps because destroying you is part of their sick fantasy."

After we hung up, I sat thinking about Julian's words. Was someone really using my career to frame me for murder? If so, they'd been planning this for years, carefully building a case that made me look guilty.

I went to my computer and started researching everyone who'd shown interest in the specific paintings that matched the crime scenes. Client lists, auction records, exhibition visitors—anyone who might have access to the detailed information the killer was using.

The list was longer than I'd expected. Dozens of people had purchased or inquired about these pieces over the past two years. But as I studied the names, one thing became clear: most of them had been introduced to me through Dr. Rothschild's recommendations.

Julian had an extensive network of collectors and academics. He'd been instrumental in building my client base, especially among those interested in classical mythology and tragic themes. It was natural that his referrals would share similar interests.

But as I looked at the timeline, something nagged at me. The sophistication of the murders had increased right around the time Julian had become more involved in my gallery operations. He'd started recommending specific pieces for exhibitions, suggesting catalog topics, even introducing me to new clients.

I shook my head, disgusted with myself for even thinking such a thing. Julian had been my mentor for fifteen years. He'd guided my career, supported me through difficult times, treated me like the daughter he'd never had. Suspecting him was exactly the kind of paranoid thinking that would destroy what few relationships I had left.

Outside my window, I could see news vans parked on the street. Tomorrow would bring more accusations, more evidence, more reasons for the world to hate me.

I had no idea that in a private studio across town, the real Canvas Killer was putting the finishing touches on crime scene photographs and planning his next move in the game that would make me the most hated woman in America.