Harlow Sinclair -POV
I died forty days from now, which means I have forty days to figure out how to not die, and I'm wasting the first three minutes vomiting on my office floor.
The cold is what breaks me. Not the impossible rebirth. Not the memory of burning. The temperature. Every forgery in this room feels like I'm being buried alive in ice.
The Caravaggio sits on the viewing easel. Tonight's private showing. Where I'm supposed to authenticate it in front of Julian's client and start everything that ends with me locked in a burning gallery.
I wipe my mouth. My fingers are so numb I can barely feel them. I haven't felt this bad since before the medication. Before Julian's doctor gave me little white pills that smoothed everything out. Made the hot and cold manageable.
Made me stop listening to my body.
I crawl to my desk. Pull out the prescription bottle. Thirty days' supply. One in the morning. One at night. Seven years of dulling the part of me that knew. That screamed. That tried to tell me everything around me was fake.
The bathroom is ten feet away but I'm shaking so hard it takes forever. Another wave of nausea hits before I reach the toilet. When there's nothing left I sit on the cold tile and stare at the pills in my hand.
In the other timeline I took these for thirty-nine more days. Stayed numb. Authenticated fifteen forgeries. Burned.
I dump them in the toilet. Flush.
The cold doesn't stop. Gets worse actually. My whole body won't stop shivering. But my head feels clearer. Like I've been underwater for years and finally surfaced.
My phone says 3:24 PM. The viewing is at 5:30. Julian already texted twice. Catherine sent the client list. Everything moving forward exactly like before. Like it will unless I do something.
I open my laptop with shaking hands. Type Marlowe Ashford.
The articles hit like punches. Five years old. "Disgraced Art Dealer Accused of Fraud." "Ashford Legacy Destroyed." "Huntington Collection Crisis Costs Museum $200 Million."
Every single one mentions the watermarked paper. The same paper I found in Julian's Red Hook workshop in the other timeline. Right before he killed me.
Julian framed him. Used Ashford family paper to destroy their whole reputation.
And I never questioned it. Believed Julian when he said Marlowe was dangerous. Reckless. A liar willing to destroy anyone.
I keep scrolling. Find something smaller. Three years old. Buried. "Museum Curator Isabelle Ashford Dead at 29."
Marlowe's fiancée. Suicide, the article says. Doesn't mention she came to Catherine asking questions about Julian two weeks before. But I remember now. I was there when Catherine sent her away. Told her to stop believing conspiracy theories.
Two weeks later Isabelle was dead.
My phone buzzes. Julian calling. I stare at his name. In the other timeline I answered. Said I'd be there in thirty minutes. Smiled through the whole viewing.
Started the countdown.
I let it ring out.
Then text: "Food poisoning. Can't make tonight. Sorry."
His response comes fast. "This is important, Harlow. Client flew in specifically."
"I know. Tomorrow?"
Dots appear. Stop. Start again. "Fine. Tomorrow 2 PM. Feel better."
Feel better. Like he cares. Like those three words aren't a threat wrapped in concern.
I stand. Look at myself in the bathroom mirror. The cold makes my lips look wrong. Blueish. My hair falls past my shoulders because Julian mentioned once he preferred longer hair. Professional, he said. Elegant.
I've been growing it for three years because of one comment.
The scissors in my desk drawer are meant for opening packages. Dull. Wrong for this. But I start cutting anyway.
The first chunk comes off uneven. Too short on one side. I keep going. Hacking at it until it's short and messy and nothing like the polished version Julian shaped me into. My hand slips. I nick my ear. A thin line of blood.
Good.
I find clothes I haven't worn in over a year. Jeans Julian said looked unprofessional. Black sweater he hated because it was too casual. The pencil skirt and silk blouse he bought me last month go in the trash.
The woman in the mirror doesn't look like me. Looks like someone I used to be. Before.
I grab my laptop. External hard drive. Seven years of authentication records. Financial documents. Client communications. Everything I've worked on for Julian. In the other timeline he used these files to frame me. Plant evidence. Create the perfect narrative of guilt-ridden authenticator who couldn't live with what she'd done.
This time I'm taking them first.
My apartment is ten blocks away. I pack like I'm never coming back. Because maybe I'm not. Clothes. The folder from my bedroom safe. Provenance research. Everything that proves Julian's operation goes deeper than anyone knows.
By 7 PM I'm on the subway to Red Hook. Industrial neighborhood. Warehouses. Abandoned factories. Not where legitimate art dealers work.
But Marlowe isn't legitimate anymore. My research says he does private recovery now. Finds stolen pieces. Works in shadows because the real art world won't touch him.
His warehouse looks condemned. Graffiti. Broken windows on the lower floors. Only one light on. Third floor.
I almost leave.
But then I hear Julian's voice through smoke. See Catherine standing outside while I burn. Think about Isabelle asking questions and dying two weeks later.
Thirty-nine days left unless I change something.
I buzz the intercom. Wait.
Nothing.
Buzz again. Hold it down.
A voice crackles through. Male. Annoyed. "We're closed."
"I need to talk to Marlowe Ashford."
"Not interested."
"It's about Julian Vance."
Long silence. So long I think he hung up.
Then: "Third floor. Door's unlocked."
The stairwell smells like rust and something rotting. Each step echoes. My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my jaw. My hands. Everywhere.
The third floor door stands open. Light spilling out.
I step through.
The space is bigger than I expected. High ceilings. Open. One corner converted to living quarters. Kitchen. Bed. Books everywhere. The rest is work. Tables covered in documents. Photographs on walls. Art pieces in different stages of restoration.
A man stands by the largest table. Tall. Dark hair. Looking at me like I'm either interesting or about to waste his time.
Marlowe Ashford.
"You've got two minutes," he says.
Not starting now. Not a countdown. Just a fact.
I open my mouth. Close it. I practiced this on the subway. Had a whole speech ready.
It's gone.
I'm standing in a condemned warehouse telling a dangerous man that his enemy framed him and wants to kill me. If he doesn't believe me, I've got thirty-nine days to find another plan. If he does, I'm trading Julian's cage for a different one.
But this time I'm choosing.
That has to count for something.
"Julian Vance framed you," I say. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "For the Huntington forgeries. I can prove it. And he's planning to kill me in forty days. I need your help."
Marlowe stares at me. Doesn't move. Doesn't speak.
Then: "Prove it."