chapter five

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"—have infiltrated the palace [CRASH]. Code 38-PS. [GUNFIRE] Lockdown now. Repeat, lock—"

—unknown, recovered comm line recording, First Palace


Someone followed her.

Iris tucked her hood closer around her and kept her walk swift, fighting not to adjust her speed as she moved down the quiet street. She tucked her easy-made noodles tight under her arm. Then glanced back.

A woman followed, keeping that same steady pace. She'd have never known she was there if she hadn't spotted the woman hanging out on the bench across from the convenience store when she came out.

It wasn't abnormal to see people wandering the streets this late. After all, there were many people coming home from the bars and late-night parties despite the dark, rain-threatening clouds. East City was a city—rain, snow, or sun, there was always someone awake at all hours.

But she'd never seen anyone sit on that bench. It was an oddly placed bench across from the convenience store. The East City station was just down the street, so most people opted to sit in the park a block away or head down to the station if they were killing time.

The bench advertised a popular music production company based in Sarias: Cavenaugh Productions. The bright Cavenaugh Productions logo swallowed the entire top half of the bench. Iris always thought it odd when advertisers put their logo where Aces placed their butts. So, when she came out of the convenience store and spotted a woman sitting there, she instantly locked on her.

And as Iris walked towards her apartment, the woman got up and followed.

When Iris turned down a side street before her apartment, the woman stayed behind her. She even took an added lap around the block, past the bars and restaurants still open in her neighborhood.

The woman followed.

Iris took a deep breath. Stay calm. Maybe you're just imagining things, she thought. However, when she still spotted the woman two blocks later, she knew for certain.

Her gut screamed at her. Don't let her get you.

Iris lived a quiet life. She had done nothing illegal, hadn't even gone to college, and didn't speak to people outside the Daniels family. She lived an abnormally quiet life. Flew under the radar.

So why was this woman following her? Was this the start of some type of randomized crime and Iris won the "wrong place, wrong time" lottery?

She resisted the urge to throw her noodles in the nearest trash can and run. Instead, she made her way into the restaurant around the corner—a bar & grill that was open until three in the morning. Her steps were forcibly even.

Meanwhile, her heartbeat thundered.

Despite her gut urging her to run, she casually opened the glass door into the restaurant, letting the dim lighting guide her. The host barely glanced her way as she did a quick sweep—looking for the exits—then "spotted" someone she knew. The only strike against her was in the hoodie and tight leggings she had on. These were clearly lounging clothes, not clothes someone wore to go out.

Though a bar and grill, the place was all smooth wood and expensive lighting. College kids chatted at a variety of tables, laughing among the booths. In the back, the bar was a long, dark high-top full to bursting with Aces out to drink their way through East City.

Iris smuggled her way past booths and through groups of young Aces. She didn't dare look back. Too worried that if the woman knew that Iris knew she was being followed, she would get closer. To do whatever it was she set out to do.

Every internal alarm Iris had blared.

She deposited the noodles in a booth, lowered her hood and unzipped her hoodie. Her lavender hair spilled out along her shoulders. Even in the dim lighting, and among the conversations mixed groups of Aces had, some stopped to look at her and her hair.

Her lavender hair had made her happy in the lonely, still silence of her studio apartment. But out here, her hair color was loud. Too loud not to draw attention.

She wasn't the only one with dyed hair. Down the bar, she spotted a man with bright blue locks, and further down, a young brown-skinned woman with a vibrant red color.

Brushing past another group, she rounded the corner to the back hallway. It was darker back here. Simple beige wallpaper lined the walls. She trailed back, past the women's restroom and the universal restroom to the men's.

Ignoring the looks from the two men already in there, she found a stall, put the seat down, and sat. She tucked her shaking hands into her hoodie pockets.

Then waited.

Surely the woman wouldn't follow her into the men's restroom—if she'd even spotted her go in.

And if she did? Then what? Iris wasn't sure. What could this woman possibly want with her?

Maybe she was out to discover more about the artist known by a scribbled flower on the corner of a canvas?

Maybe she was with the gallery, and the curator had finally cracked and wanted to track her down?

Maybe the woman thought her someone else?

Maybe, maybe, maybe. Iris didn't enjoy living a life of maybes. Nor did she like the idea of hiding out in a men's restroom in a restaurant in the city.

Still, she waited a few minutes. Across the room, the urinals flushed and the sink turned on. Once.

The second man just left.

Gross.

Iris waited until they were both gone, then left the minor safety of her stall. She peeked out the door, but no one had followed.

She'd either lost the tail, or the woman hadn't gotten back here yet. Which meant she needed to go. Now.

She paused at the doorway leading to the main bar, searching for the woman. There. The woman had paused at the main entry, a phone pressed to her ear.

Iris frowned. What was going on?

Regardless, she wouldn't stick around to find out. She snatched a white scarf from a chair right by the doorway and tucked it over her hair.

"Hey!"

Iris didn't wait. She jogged to the employee exit down the hallway and stepped out into the night.

The dark thunderclouds had finally broken, and a steady rain pelted down onto the pavement. At the end of the alley, she almost slammed into someone else.

"Sorry," she said, and stepped around the guy. His dark hair was already matted to his forehead with the rain. Water dripped heavily off his leather jacket.

The guy let her past with nothing but a frown and a hesitant nod.

If she were anyone else, if she had more experience with people, she'd consider flirting with this man. He was with another man. The two of them were built, and would be a great place to hide. Blend in. If she were more experienced, maybe she'd be able to convince them to walk her home.

But she wasn't. So she didn't.

Instead, she rounded the man and, briskly, made her way back onto the streets.

A block later, a shiver raced down her spine. She glanced back, only to spot another man rounding the corner of the building behind her. Another woman across the street stopped and turned.

Iris' breath stalled.

She ran.

Her sneakers slipped against the wet pavement as she cut around the corner and down Main. She only glanced back to confirm the woman and man chased her.

Whyweretheychasingher?

Iris cut across Main and slipped down to what the locals called Bar Alley. There were always Aces hanging out at the bars along the street.

Aces lined the sidewalks in groups. Some bars had people spilling out onto the street. Others had small awning-covered seating areas and open garage style doors that sent music flooding into the night air. If there was going to be a spot to lose the trail, this would be it.

Iris ducked around one line, weaved through a sitting area, and entered an open garage door half a block down. She made herself slow down as she pushed through Aces. A drink spilled onto her arm. Her hip caught the edge of another table.

She hissed and kept moving to the back and out the exit. Then she cut down the alley.

How did they make this look so easy in the movies? Her wet shoes slid as she looped back around through another alley back to Main. Every time she came to the end of an alley, she thought she saw a flash of the people chasing her. But no one reached out to grab her. No one shouted after her.

When would she know she'd lost them?

Her chest screamed as she heaved breaths through her teeth. She ducked across to Fifth and down to the Old District. When she glanced back, she didn't spot anyone still chasing her.

Had she done it? Had she lost them?

She slipped around the crumbling stoop of an old apartment complex four blocks down from hers. The fire escape zigzagged precariously along the brick building. Spotting the bottom rung of the ladder, she jumped.

The ladder groaned, then slid down with a sudden screech.

Iris yelped as her wet palms slipped on the moving bar. The ladder clanged as it stopped.

She found purchase, flipped the stolen scarf over her shoulder, then, blinking rain from her vision, climbed.

Only when she reached the rooftop did she feel any semblance of safety. Surely, they wouldn't be looking on rooftops for her.

A million questions filtered through her mind. She crouched near the edge of the rooftop and gazed into the street below.

The woman was the first to appear. She shot out from the alley across the street, looked both ways, and stopped. Iris crouched down further, barely peering over the ledge.

The man showed up a few moments later from around the side of the building. The two shared a heated exchange. Then the woman shook her head and pulled out her phone.

They left the way they came.

All the adrenaline left Iris in a rush. She sat back on the rooftop and pulled in a big breath. The rain felt like ice against her face now. Teeth clattering, she huddled into her now wet hoodie and pilfered scarf, and waited for the sun to rise.

~

"I do not know her name."

Wylan resisted the urge to launch his fist through the sleek dark wood of the gallery reception desk. "You've sold over nineteen of her paintings across Aeriana and you don't know her name?"

Next to him, Thad whistled low.

The gallery curator, an older, dark-skinned man named Kent, pushed his wire-framed glasses further up on his face. "Our transactions are not normal, Mr. Garrick."

The skylight filtered the morning sun across the light wood floors of the main gallery. Almost against his will, Wylan's eyes immediately found another painting just a few feet from him. His eyes locked on the small iris signature in the corner of the piece. It stood right there. Mocking him.

"Explain that to me."

Kent's eyes flicked to Thad and then back. No doubt wondering what the connection was between the painter and the two of them. Wylan had had to flash his hardly used government badge to get the receptionist to grab Kent. No doubt this was the first time the government had ever shown up at his gallery door asking after an artist.

"I do not know when to expect pieces from her. Sometimes it only takes a few days, sometimes it is months before there is another piece."

"You don't come to a price prior to her dropping a piece off?" Wylan frowned. "There's no discussion? Do you take every piece that someone drops off?" If that was the case, he'd pull out a page from his notebook in the car, draw a stick figure, and leave it on the gallery's front stoop.

"She drops it off in the middle of the night," Kent said with a frown. "There is no interaction between her and the gallery staff."

A crease appeared between Thad's eyebrows. "You folks have a drop box over here?"

Kent shook his head. "She started dropping them off in the middle of the night near the dumpster. One of our morning staff found it and brought it in for review. Then gradually, as more pieces showed up, we had her place them in the vestibule in the back."

"So the night staff has seen her?"

"Not entirely," Kent said. "She wears a hood and ducks her head when she drops a piece off. Our security staff at night know to expect her, but not interact."

"Has anyone tried?"

"Yes." Kent waved to the young receptionist behind the desk. "Jessica stayed late one night and tried to approach her. She left as soon as she spotted Jessica headed her way."

Huh. So skittish. Was that because she was afraid, or because she was doing something she shouldn't have?

"We left her alone after that," Kent continued. "Instead, I set up a P.O. Box where we send her the payment for the work."

Wylan shared a look with Thad. "We're going to need the location of that P.O. Box. And we're going to set up a watch for the gallery tonight."

Kent looked between Wylan and Thad, his frown growing. "I do not understand. Has she done something wrong? I can assure you that our interactions are not illegal per se, although there is no formal contract in place. We issue her payment according to the industry standard."

"She's not in trouble," Wylan admitted to Kent, careful in the words he chose as they left his mouth. "But she is in danger. We'd like to make sure she's safe. That's all."

Kent's eyes went wide. "Of course. Do what you need. I only ask that you advise our security staff when you arrive or leave. If they see individuals lurking around, they may choose to address what they deem an issue. Swiftly."

Wylan almost snorted. Almost. "Understood. Now, what else can you tell me about her?" He jerked his chin to the security camera in the room's corner. "I don't suppose you have any security feed with her on it, do you?"

Kent slowly shook his head. "We do not. She always wears a hood. Though our guard, Tim, has mentioned that he spotted her hair once. It is a bit of a mystery on our end, you see, so our staff likes to, shall we say, gossip when the guards spot anything new."

Wylan, whose gaze kept wandering back to the iris painting, focused immediately back on Kent. "Details?" He prompted.

"Small, miniscule details," Kent advised. "She usually wears all black, but once she had a red hoodie, or blue sneakers." He gestured around the gallery space, empty but for the paintings and sculptures dotted throughout. "Other than big events, the gallery, unfortunately, does not see much foot traffic. Tiny details become very exciting around here."

"You mentioned a hair color," Thad broke in. "Was security able to distinguish the color?"

At that question, Kent smiled. "It is not often you find a person with lavender hair."

Lavender hair.

It was as if a bolt of lightning shot straight down his spine. What were the odds?

Last night, when they'd arrived in East City, Thad had gone off to find them a temporary hotel to stay in while Wylan walked the streets. It was important for them to get the lay of the land any time they searched an area. They needed every detail about the towns and cities—everything from the places where people stayed and businesses that thrived, down to the places of activity. The "hot spots" for the young and old crowds.

After Thad secured them a spot to stay, he'd joined Wylan as they'd surveyed the area. They ran into a young woman coming out of a bar on the west side. She'd practically collided with them before slipping away.

She'd had light purple hair, just a piece, escaping under some type of scarf.

What were the odds of that?

She'd seemed like she was in a hurry, though Wylan assumed she'd been desperate to get out of the rain and save herself the wet hair.

But what if...

Wylan replayed the moment in his mind. Her gasping breaths. Her wide eyes. The look she'd had when they collided.

Fuck. What if she'd been running?

"That's helpful, thank you." Wylan gestured to Thad. "My partner will get the post office box information from you. I'll finalize our patrol for the gallery and will send the details so you can distribute to the staff if necessary."

"Of course. Thank you." Kent shook his hand.

Then Wylan got the hell out of there.

Back out on the street, the morning sun was warm for the fall day. Wylan blew out a breath and ran a hand through his dark hair. What were the odds?

He'd always believed, in his heart, that he'd recognize her if he'd ever see her again. They hadn't been extraordinarily close as kids, but enough that for sure he'd assumed he'd have recognized her. That he'd have spotted an older version of her button nose and tip-tilted eyes and would have immediately known.

If that was Driana last night, if that was the artist they were chasing, then he couldn't have been more wrong.

Worse, if that was her, was he already too late?

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