Behind The Billionaire's Locked Room

find you. I'm not sure what my original sin was, but it

phone was flat, utterly neutral-a man who had san

llars of wet earth, three weeks of groceries if I was

's Financial Services division. I'm calling in reference

ferred to as Caitlin-an asset to be managed, a

March chill that gets into

ghosts. The figure emerging from the clay on my workbench had shaped itself without my permission. A body tearing i

ice came out rough, like an old mac

cks of his keyboard-he was reading from a script. "That said, the payment was not sufficient to alter the account's status. The cu

sculpture, its faceless head bowed. The gall

I said. My knuckles were whi

ds to co

f we don't receive a substantial payment to clear the ninety-days-past-due by the end of

go to die. Where patients go to die-just more

ubstan

ousand

f the eight thousand I'd given Liam for his startup-my biggest sale ever. "An investment in us," I'd said, full of stupid hope.

lied. The words

'll note that

ed the

at the surface while I'd been talking - I could feel it the moment I pressed my thumb back in, that slight resist

- three years of payments that had barely moved the balance, the yellow of Caitlin's skin last February before they adjusted the dosage, the sound she made in her

that sound sin

e this grimy warehouse the morning was continuing perfectly normally, pigeons arguing on the fire esc

said. The words

sculpture. Arm

ything vital offere

unpolished, transgressive"-the kind of art that made collectors uncomfortable and then made them reach for thei

king for arti

t, Nora. Those collectors-they don't just buy art. They buy access. Obsession. Some

. A body destroying itse

npolished, and transg

ped it for transport. From cold

scenting blood. The space was deliberately industrial-exposed pipes, concrete floors, lighting that made ev

ose to my sculpture. "The violence of sacrifi

-haired, impeccably dressed. He hadn't moved in twenty minutes.

ing, he smiled. Then h

uzzed. Unk

sed. Full asking price. Th

teen thousand dollars. Enough to cover the hospit

Tower. Tomorrow. 10

d to have the largest private art collection in the country. A collection no one had ev

ll shaking. Not f

ck: Who is

tely: Someone who sees ex

t Caitlin's face swam before me-thin, pale, asking

there,

a tower that touched the sky

lpture had been, the industrial lighting making my hands look like someone else's. The other collector

my phone an