Chapter 3: Blood on Canvas
Three days later, I stood outside the Ashford Gallery at eight in the morning, holding my paintings and five hundred dollars in cash..
The front door was unlocked when I tried the handle.
"Ms. Ashford?" I called out as I stepped inside.
The gallery felt different in the early morning light—more intimate somehow, like walking into someone's private home. My footsteps echoed on the polished floors as I made my way toward the back office.
"Ms. Ashford? It's Lucy Carter."
"Hello?" I whispered.
I turned the corner into the exhibition room and saw her immediately.
A young woman, maybe twenty, lying crumpled beneath one of the display windows. Her blonde hair was matted with blood, and her eyes stared at the ceiling without seeing anything.
I dropped to my knees beside her, my hands shaking as I checked for a pulse I knew I wouldn't find.
"Oh God,
My phone was in my hands before I consciously decided to call 911, my fingers trembling as I dialed.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"There's a dead woman at the Ashford Gallery on Michigan Avenue. Please send help."
"Ma'am, are you injured?"
"No, I just found her. I think she's been murdered."
The operator's voice became more focused. "I need you to stay on the line and not touch anything. Officers are on their way."
I backed away from the body, my eyes taking in details I wished I could unsee. The woman was wearing a Northwestern University sweatshirt and jeans. A student, probably. There was no obvious weapon, no signs of struggle, but the blood on the back of her head suggested she'd been hit with something heavy.
The sirens arrived within minutes, followed by police officers who immediately cordoned off the scene and began asking questions I couldn't answer.
"Detective Morrison, Chicago PD."
The man who approached me. Tall, dark hair that needed a trim, and tired eyes that suggested he'd seen too much in his career. But when he looked at me, his expression was more curious than suspicious.
"You found the body?"
"Yes. I came in for a meeting with the gallery owner."
"What time was your meeting?"
"Eight o'clock. The door was unlocked when I arrived."
Detective Morrison made notes in a small pad. "Tell me about your relationship with Victoria Ashford."
I explained about the invitation, the exhibition opportunity, the reason I was there so early. He listened without interrupting, his dark eyes studying my face as I spoke.
"Have you ever seen the victim before?"
I looked back at the dead woman, trying to remember if I'd seen her face somewhere.
"I don't think so. She looks young. College age."
"Rebecca Stone, twenty-one. Northwestern art student. Her ID was in her purse."
Rebecca Stone. The name didn't mean anything to me, but something about her face looked familiar now that I studied it more carefully.
"Detective Morrison, I think I might have seen her before. At the gallery, maybe? A few days ago when I first met with Ms. Ashford?"
"You're not sure?"
More officers arrived, including crime scene technicians who began photographing everything. I watched them work, feeling like I was trapped in someone else's nightmare.
"Ms. Carter, where were you last night between midnight and six AM?"
The question hit me like a punch to the gut. "Am I a suspect?"
"I'm just gathering information. Can you account for your whereabouts?"
"I was at home. Alone. I live alone."
Detective Morrison's expression didn't change, but I could see him filing that information away.
"I'll need your contact information. Don't leave town without letting me know."
Two hours later, I sat in a coffee shop down the street, staring at my untouched latte and trying to process what had happened. My paintings were still at the gallery, now part of a crime scene.
My phone rang.
"Lucy? I heard about the gallery on the news. Are you okay?"
Tommy's voice was tight with worry, and hearing it almost made me cry.
"I found the body, Tommy. Some college student. Rebecca Stone."
"Jesus. What were you doing there so early?"
I explained about the meeting with Victoria, about bringing my paintings and the exhibition fee.
"Where's Victoria now?"
"Nobody knows. The police are looking for her."
"You think I don't know that?"
"No, I mean... finding a dead body at a gallery where you were supposed to exhibit? Where you gave them money? This looks really suspicious."
I hadn't thought about it that way, but he was right. I was connected to both Victoria Ashford and the crime scene. If Victoria had killed Rebecca Stone and then disappeared, it would look like I was involved somehow.
"The detective didn't arrest me."
"Yet. But Lucy, think about this. A mysterious gallery owner contacts you out of nowhere, asks for money upfront, and then a dead body shows up right before your meeting? That's not a coincidence."
My phone buzzed with another call. Unknown number.
"Tommy, I have to go. Someone else is calling."
"Lucy, don't—"
I answered the other call.
"Ms. Carter? This is Victoria Ashford."
My blood went cold. "Where are you? The police are looking for you."
"I know about Rebecca. I'm so sorry you had to see that."
"Did you kill her?"
The question came out before I could stop myself.
"Of course not. But I'm afraid I can't come back to the gallery right now. It's not safe."
"Not safe for who?"
"For either of us. Rebecca was killed because she discovered something she shouldn't have. Something about the gallery, about certain pieces in our collection."
"What are you talking about?"
"Meet me tonight at Millennium Park, by the Bean. Ten o'clock. Come alone."
"I'm not going anywhere alone with you. For all I know, you killed that girl."
"Lucy, please listen to me. Rebecca Stone wasn't just a random art student. She was investigating art theft, specifically pieces that have been sold through galleries like mine. She got too close to something dangerous."
"Stolen paintings, forged authentication documents, money laundering through art sales. Rebecca stumbled onto it, now she's dead."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you're in danger too. The people who killed Rebecca think you know what she knew. They think I told you something during our meetings."
"But you didn't tell me anything."
"I know that, and you know that. But they don't know that."
The line was quiet except for the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
"Victoria, if this is true, we need to go to the police."
"The police can't protect you from these people. But I can. Meet me tonight, and I'll explain everything. I'll tell you who really killed Rebecca Stone, and why."
The call ended, leaving me staring at my phone and wondering if I was talking to a murderer or a victim.
Either way, I was pretty sure my art career was over before it had even begun.
And worse than that—I was pretty sure Rebecca Stone wasn't going to be the only person who died because of whatever was happening at the Ashford Gallery.
I just hoped I wouldn't be next.