Читать книгу False Impressions - Laura Caldwell, Leslie S. Klinger - Страница 19

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Madeline Saga’s oddly shaped gallery was well situated for frequent walks past the place, either on Michigan Avenue on one side or on the narrow pedestrian mall on the other. Both provided large windows to see the artwork inside, of course, but also to see Madeline.

These frequent, somewhat obsessive walks were an attempt to soothe ever-mounting emotions—toxic, hateful emotions—connected to Madeline Saga.

From inside the gallery, the glare of the glass made it hard to see pedestrians outside. And so it was simple to walk by, back and forth, to see what Madeline was doing. Everyone who had dealt with her knew how Madeline got when she was working at the gallery. But of course, Madeline didn’t see the gallery as a job. It was her life.

And now Madeline could be seen through the Michigan Avenue windows, through the snow, growing lighter, while the skies grew yellow with sun. And, yes, there she was, introducing her assistant to Jeremy Breslin, of all people, the one who had discovered the fakes.

But how brazen, how bold, this introduction, as if Madeline felt no remorse.

Madeline didn’t seem to notice people watching her—whether through her windows or in person. She didn’t notice because they didn’t matter to her, whether they were full of awe or hate or anything in between. Art mattered to her, her gallery.

But neither would be part of Madeline’s life for long. They might be the end of her altogether.