ed brick, heavily tinted windows, no signa

uzzer. "Johnna Hayde

ked open with

of turpentine, varnish, and old canvas. It was a scent

th-facing skylights flooded the room with consistent, diffused light. Workstations

er. Simon Vance. He looked more like

firm, his eyes scanning her simple black trousers and

abbatical," John

and wire-rimmed glasses looked up from a microscope. This was Ster

ee years? In this industry, that me

On it sat a 17th-century Dutch still life. It was a disaster. A jagged, ugly tear ra

owing her gaze. "Transport accide

n a rag. "Structural integrity is compromised. W

x it," Jo

d, a harsh, barking sound. "You? Base

t's a bold claim. If you touch it and

studied the weave of the canvas, the brittle flaking of the paint around the tear. "The canvas needs a threa

ive me a test. Any scrap can

odded. "Sterling, give

of old linen onto a table. "K

magnifying visor. She pulled o

the studio faded. The anxiety about Chadwick, the divorce, the money-it

ned broken threads with a dentist's pick, applying microscopic dots of adhesive to a two-

ff the visor. "With the sta

ce. He picked up the canvas, holding

irk va

closer to his face. He ran a finge

ar?" Simon asked,

ooked at Johnna with a mixture of hatred

o-bridging. I haven't seen weave manipulation like this since the o

aid nothing. The Dyers had never asked about her father's profession, only

ouble the standard rate. Can y

Johnn

," Simon barked at

of dopamine. She was back. She

glass of water. Her phone, tucked in her

out, expecti

ith a name that mad

dwi

er other life came crashing back in. She stared at t