Chapter 3
Grant's eyes flickered as he gave me the number.
I didn't back down.
I pressed Call right in front of him, and someone picked up almost immediately.
The customer service representative confirmed our address, then sent me a link to the job details.
When the page lit up my screen, my breath caught.
It was the complete work order.
Three high-resolution photos were attached below.
In the first, my painting panels, easel, and paint box had been crudely bound together with packing tape.
The second was a close-up.
A fluorescent green sticky note was clearly visible on the unfinished oil painting in cool tones.
In my own handwriting, it read: [Portland Fall Exhibition — Do Not Move].
The third photo was a screenshot of a text exchange between the cleanout crew's supervisor and Grant.
The supervisor had asked: [Sir, the paintings against the wall are labeled and look important. Should we pack them separately and put them in storage?]
Below that was my husband's reply.
Just four letters.
[Toss].
The message had been sent yesterday at 3:17 p.m.
The same afternoon he'd texted to ask how my aunt was feeling and reminded me to drive safely.
The phone slipped from my fingers and hit the carpet with a dull thud.
I looked up, my whole body beginning to shake.
"You said you told them to keep everything safe."
Grant glanced down at the screen on the floor, his throat bobbing.
"Tessa, let me explain."
He tried to catch my wrist.
I stumbled back, hitting the cold hallway railing.
"They asked you."
I stared at him, every word trembling.
"The exhibition label was right there. You saw it."
For the first time, a trace of shame crossed Grant's face.
But he quickly straightened, his brow tightening.
"Yes, I saw it. But Brooke's truck had to unload last night."
"The movers charge by the hour. They were pushing us to clear the room."
"Arranging a separate truck to take the paintings to storage, sorting them, packing them up—that would've held everything up for at least two or three days."
He drew a deep breath, his tone turning reproachful, as though he were the one being reasonable.
"Tessa, it's one little show at a local gallery. There'll be another one next spring."
"Brooke had a firm deadline to move out of her storage space. That couldn't change."
"Some things have to take priority. I couldn't let her business grind to a halt."
Some things have to take priority.
To him, three years of my work would always come last.
I glanced at Brooke, who was casually scrolling through her phone, utterly uninterested in our argument.
Then I looked back at Grant, my lips pressed together, and simply stared at him.
For the first time in seven years, I was looking at him as though he were a stranger.
A flicker of panic I'd never seen before crossed his eyes.
"Tessa?"
He took a tentative step toward me.
"I'll call their manager right now."
He quickly pulled out his phone, his fingers fumbling slightly as he swiped across the screen.
He put the call on speaker.
The news wasn't good.
"I'm sorry, sir."
The manager's voice was flat and rehearsed.
"Everything marked for general disposal was sent out to separate facilities last night."
"The wooden frames went to the wood-sorting facility on the south side of town. The unframed panels went to the landfill for shredding. Some of the smaller items may have gone to nearby donation centers."
"There are four different drop-off sites involved."
"It's almost dark. There's no way we can track everything down today."
The background noise on the call seemed unbearably loud as Grant lowered the phone to his side.
He looked at my pale face, his lips moving as though he were searching for something that could still make this all right.
But I was already heading downstairs.
"Tessa, where are you going?" he called urgently behind me.
I didn't look back.
"To find the paintings you threw out like garbage."