Behind The Billionaire's Locked Room

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

phone was flat, dead neutral, a guy who'd sanded

of wet earth, three weeks of groceries if I was careful. I

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

red to as Caitlin, an asset to be managed, a liabi

March chill that gets into

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

e came out rough as hell, like an old

ck on his keyboard. The bastard was reading from a script. "That said, the payment was not sufficient to alter the account's status. Th

lpture, its faceless head bowed. The gallery mi

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

nts go to die. Where patients go to die, just mo

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. Th

lied. The words

'll note that

ed the

eter at the surface while I'd been talking; I could feel it the moment I pressed my thumb back in, that slig

ree 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 s

that sound sin

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

said. The words

sculpture. Arm

ything vital offere

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

king for arti

al, Nora. Those rich assholes don't just buy art. They buy access. Obsession. Some of them are fuc

. A body destroying itse

npolished, and transg

it for transport. From the cold,

ks smelling blood. The space was industrial on purpose, exposed pipes, concrete floors, lighting that made

lose to my sculpture. "The violence of sacrif

aired, dressed like serious money. He hadn't moved in twenty minute

ing, he smiled. Then h

uzzed. Unk

sed. Full asking price. Th

thousand dollars. Enough to cover the hospital's dea

Tower. Tomorrow. 10

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

ll shaking. Not f

ck: Who is

tely: Someone who sees ex

l. But Caitlin's face swam before me, thin, pale, as

there,

a tower that touched the sky

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

my phone an