Chapter 6

The gallery director's office was a study in mid-century modern elegance. Walnut paneling lined the walls, interrupted only by floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the sculpture garden. A chrome and leather Eames chair sat behind a massive teak desk, and along the far wall, a long, low mid-century couch in charcoal wool invited visitors to sit, to linger, to stay awhile. Bookshelves lined one entire wall, filled with art monographs and auction catalogs. Arthur led me inside, closing the door behind us and turning the lock with a firm click. The office was quiet, insulated from the rest of the gallery by thick walls and the soft hum of the HVAC system. The city lights filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the room, painting everything in shades of silver and black. I could see my reflection in the dark glass, my dress still rumpled from the viewing room, my hair loose and tangled. "This is where you conduct business," I said, running my fingers along the edge of the teak desk. My voice sounded strange in the quiet, too loud, too breathless. "This is where I built the Mercer Gallery," he corrected, moving to stand behind the desk. "Every