A New Crate Carried The Hand Of A Missing Woman

"That doesn't prove she made it," Rafael said.

He said it gently. I hated hearing it anyway.

"I know."

I leaned over the dish while the evidence technician took photographs. A faint line showed where the new fill met old glaze. The surface had been toned with dry pigment. Whoever had done it had stopped short of painting across the original clay.

Mara always stopped there.

"Can you tell how fresh?" he asked.

"Not to a date. The bill gives us a date. The fill gives us a reason to investigate it."

I wanted to say I knew her hands. In a report, that would mean very little.

I wrote down materials, shape, tool marks, and limits. Then I sat on the back step and shook.

Rafael brought water. He set it beside me instead of pressing it into my hand.

"You can stop for today."

"She didn't get to stop."

"We don't know that yet."

I stared at the bright gravel behind my building.

"You're careful with every word."

"Words get used after people leave the room."

I looked at him then. He seemed worn down by more than this case.

"I was married once," he said. "I made being careful into never saying anything. It wasn't fair to her."

It was the first personal thing he had offered without a question. I wanted to ask more. His phone rang, and he stood to answer it.

The gallery's office manager had confirmed the dish had been sent by mistake. An assistant had cleared scheduled deliveries while Silas dealt with the searches.

The repair bill was a carbon copy from a numbered pad. Its printed heading said Saguaro Bench Services. The address was a mailbox.

"A repair shop?" I asked.

"We're checking."

By evening, June had another problem for me. Silas's lender had sent my landlord a formal demand for the $86,000 balance. The landlord had forwarded it with a proposed agreement ending my lease.

There was a $5,000 payment attached if I left in ten days.

"Don't sign," June said. "Your lease still runs for eleven months. We'll ask the court to enforce it."

"He'll ruin my landlord to reach me."

"Then we document that too."

I spent the next morning listing every customer object in the studio. Eleni read the numbers while I checked them against the intake sheets. We arranged temporary storage with another conservator in case we had to move quickly.

I called each owner myself. I told them their objects were insured and accounted for. Several offered to collect early. One woman told me to keep her cracked mixing bowl as long as I needed.

The smallest fragments went into their own lidded cups.

I had imagined revenge as a feeling. Mostly, it was making copies while my coffee went cold.

At noon, a letter arrived from Silas's lawyer. It demanded my original images and claimed I had agreed to delete them. Attached was the front page of my invoice.

June sent back both signed pages.

She asked them to identify the exact sentence that required deletion.

There was no answer that day.

Rafael stopped by near closing with an update he could share. Saguaro Bench was registered to Owen Pike, Silas's warehouse manager. The business had no listed employees, yet it had paid for conservation supplies every month.

"Including materials on this bill," he said.

"Mara needs a certain light to work. A wide lamp with a cool bulb. Did they buy one?"

He wrote it down.

"Her investigator will ask."

As he put his notebook away, our hands touched over the counter. Neither of us moved for a beat.

Then he stepped back.

"Iro, I like being here more than I should."

I felt heat in my face.

"I like when you're here."

"You're a witness. You're under pressure. I can't turn that into something for myself."

"Then don't. Help me find her. We can talk later."

"All right."

I believed him. That made waiting harder.

An hour later, someone sent me a photograph of Rafael leaving my studio. The message came from an unknown number.

Your Friend Could Lose His Badge Over You.

I sent it to June and Rafael. I also printed it, including the number and time. My hands knew the work even while my stomach turned.

Rafael called.

"I've told my supervisor about our conversation. Another investigator will handle your witness interviews. Save that message."

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't send it."

Before dawn, his colleague called me. A supplier had found a delivery receipt for the wide work lamp. The driver had noted a building number outside Benson.

He had also noted a woman at an upstairs window asking him to leave the gate open.