in on me. I packed my antique tools, the ones passed down from my grandfather,

the hell ar

tight with a mixture of confusion and anger. He was my mentor, the man who tau

I said, my voice flat.

in the city. We have the Vermeer pro

" I corr

, stood watching. She had a concerned look on her face, but her eye

rd, her voice ful

ened with the Degas sculpture? It

d was a lie. I loo

ng because of the Degas. I

s, a protective arm ge

ng but a brilliant student. She looks up

l came rushing back

ttle too eager to please. I took her under my wing, excited to mentor a new talent. I showed her everything, my unique techniques for ana

was using an "artistic intuition" app, something that helped her "connect" with the a

he would hold her phone up to the piece, close her eyes, and then announce a stunningly accurate insight. "The artist's brushstroke here shows

e direct echoes of conversations I'd had, techniques I'd demonstrated in private just days b

minor cleaning. I left the studio for an hour to meet with a client. When I returned, a large, ugly

reless, forgetful. Mark, blinded by her rising fame and the prestige she brought to our studio, believed her. An internal investigation was launched. Rum

destroyed in a week. They didn't fire me. They didn't have to

his face now a mas

don't you?" I asked, my

ly. "And I believe in the results Chloe get

's anger. As I left the studio that day, a news van was

vandalized the Degas out

the plastic cup bouncing off my collarbone. The crowd jeered. I saw Chloe watching from the studio window,

r named Ava Vance. She died right there on

old, hard resolve. I pushed past Mark, not giving him a second glance. I w

e life I had built behind me. I didn' t know what I would do