Free Hush Hush #2 by Anneliese Vandell

them, but they have vanished.  
    No, it’s me she’s interested in.
    She looks up at the print in front of us, her lip curling.
    “I helped pick this one out, actually,” she says. “It’s not customary for the trustees to participate in the gallery’s curation process, of course. But I had something of a personal interest in this artist. He was my own discovery. I happened to come across his work during a visit with the President of the Fine Arts Academy—you know the one, down on Magazine Street—and I was absolutely mesmerized.” She tilts her chin upward, better to take in the sight of the photograph. “This was the first photograph of his that I ever saw. It’s always been my favorite.”
    She speaks unhurriedly, her voice a comfortable sing-song. I watch her uneasily. This is not a woman known for her affability—so what’s the deal? Why is she talking to me like we’re old friends?
    Mrs. Hawthorne glances over at me, as if expecting a response.
    “It’s v-very nice,“ I stammer out nervously.
    “Nice doesn’t begin to encompass it,” she scoffs. She takes a step closer to the photograph, her fingers pointing softly. “See the rings in the exposed wood. They’re obscured by the jagged cuts, but the effect is like an undulating motion.”  
    Her hand drops. She looks at me, the photograph forgotten behind her.  
    “There’s something powerful about it. It speaks to the notion of eternality. No—of imperviousness,” she says, reconsidering. “You can saw into the wood, or twist it, or snap it in half. But still, whether as sawdust or splinters, it continues to exist in some form. It persists, despite all best efforts.”
    There’s a bite in her voice. Why do I have the nagging feeling that she’s not talking about the wood?
    My breath turns shallow as she moves uncomfortably close. If I stumbled forward, I would knock into her.  
    “Don’t think that I don’t remember your face,” she says quietly. Her tone is restrained, polite. But there’s a menace simmering just barely beneath the surface. “You came to my home, claiming that my son invited you and bringing up old unpleasantries. And now here you are again. Why? What do you want?”
    “I’m just here for the art,” I lie quickly. “I didn’t know that you would be here.”
    “I don’t believe you,” she snaps. Someone waves at her, and she waves back genteelly, while continuing to speak to me through clenched teeth. “ Who are you? ”
    “My name is Sophia Moore,” I reply. My voice is trembling. “I don’t even live here. I’m just visiting.”
    “I’ve met a hundred others just like you before, Miss Moore. Following my family. Sniffing around,” she says. “Who hired you?”
    “No one hired me,” I say breathlessly. “What are you talking about?”
    Her eyes bore into mine, searching for the truth. I summon my best poker face and try not to blink, but almost immediately my eyes begin to water. I can feel my heart racing, sending shockwaves of adrenaline all the way out to my fingertips. But I keep my body still, determined not to show any indication that my story is a lie. One false move and she’ll know, I’m sure of it—
    And then—a saving grace. The red-haired woman swoops behind us and taps Mrs. Hawthorne on the shoulder.
    “Ma’am, Petunia would like to speak with you about scheduling the next trustee meeting,” she says.
    Mrs. Hawthorne breaks her gaze with me at last, turning toward the red-haired woman.
    “Fine. Tell her I’ll be there in just a minute.” Mrs. Hawthorne waits until the woman has hurried away to relay the message, and then snaps her head back toward me.
    “I don’t know who you are yet, but trust me when I say I’ll find out. In the meantime,” Mrs. Hawthorne says, moving closer, “ stay away from my son. Or else I promise you’ll wish you had listened to me.”
    And with that, she strides away, leaving me shaking and breathless in the middle of the gallery floor. A