A Final Difficulty

As we sped through the downtown streets, I could still clearly remember the text.

Examine the artwork.  There, you'll discover the solution.

Damon's hold on the steering was hard and his knuckles appeared white from moving through traffic. I sat next to him, my heart hammering madly against my ribs. It felt different when I created the artwork that served as the main attraction of my exhibition. It now seemed to be the solution to a riddle we were solving without even realizing it.

"What if there's a trap here?"  My voice was strained as I asked.

Damon tightened his jaw.  "After that, we enter it together."

The thing about him was that.  He didn't flee from peril.  He confronted it directly.  And I did, too, for better or worse.

When we reached the gallery, the imposing structure was hauntingly quiet under the streetlight glow.  As we walked in, the security officers nodded, but there was something unsettling about the way they stood.  They were on guard, not just standing watch.

Damon also took note.  His fingers silently warned me by brushing across my lower back.

The exhibition hall was deserted.  Something invisible, something waiting, permeated the air.  My gaze then fell upon the artwork.

It was in the heart of the ideal lighting, just where it had been on exhibit.  I went toward it, gasping for air.

The composition was very emotive despite its abstract shape.  A storm of blues and silvers, with strands of deep red interwoven, had struck me in a flash of inspiration.  I simply knew that I had to paint it that way; I had no idea why.

I sensed a change now that I was in front of it.  Just out of grasp is a hint of truth.

Damon took a seat next to me.  "What do we want to find?"

I raised a hand, paused, and then touched the paint with my fingertips.  It felt smooth and dry to the touch.  However, then—

A click.

I almost believed I was dreaming since the sound was so faint.

Damon stiffened.  "Emma—"

Behind the artwork, the wall moved.

I staggered back when a tiny room was revealed by a secret panel that slid open.  Moment I stepped inside and my fingertips had contact with something strong, my heart beat.

A container.

Old, wooden, with weathered edges.

Breathing shallowly, I cautiously drew it out.  After glancing at it, Damon muttered a curse.

He said, "This isn't just art anymore."  "This is the past."

My hands shaking, I opened the lid and gulped.

There was a pile of letters inside, tattered and tied with twine.

I picked up the top one, which had my name written in an unfamiliar hand.  My throat constricted.

"Who penned these?"  I muttered.

Damon had a keen eye.  "There is only one way to know."

I quickly skimmed the text as I unfolded the first letter.  My breath left me as soon as I finished reading the first paragraph.

"Emma, my love, if you’re reading this, then the past has finally caught up to you."

The room whirled.

Damon grabbed my arm and held me up.  "Emma?"

I was unable to talk.  unable to think.

since I recognized that voice.

And it belonged to a person who ought to have passed away long ago.

The doors of the exhibition sprang open before I could comprehend it.

Voices flooded the room, frantic, furious.  Marble flooring clattered underfoot.

As individuals in black suits crowded the room, Damon reacted in an instant, moving in front of me and protecting me.

A guy with icy eyes and an oppressive aura moved forward.

"You ought to have buried the past," he replied with ease.

My heart thumping, I gripped the letter tighter.

Damon had a deadly posture.  "Who are you in the hell?"

The guy grinned.  "The one who is going to put a stop to this."

Then—

There was a gunshot.

The tense stillness was broken by the gunshot.

As the bullet pierced the wall inches from where I had been standing, Damon reacted before I could respond, pulling me behind him.  Sharp and decisive, the sound reverberated across the large gallery area.  Adrenaline rushed my veins, causing my heart to race and my ears to ring.

"Come down!"  Damon growled and drew me to the closest pillar for protection.

The suit-clad guys dispersed, creating a strategic circle around us.  This assault wasn't a random one.  They were ready.

My thoughts were racing as I held the pile of letters close to my breast.  I could still clearly remember the lines from the letter I had just read.

"Emma, my love, if you’re reading this, then the past has finally caught up to you."

What is the past?  Whose history?

With a revolver dangling loosely at his side, the guy who had spoken before stepped forward slowly.  He had too much confidence.

He tilted his head and said, "You were never meant to find those."  "Emma, you had a nice life.  a life of safety.  Why excavate ghosts?

In front of me, Damon's words sounded like ice and his physique was a wall of strength.  "Before I make you regret breathing, you have three seconds to tell me who you are."

The guy grinned.  “If I were you, Mr. Blackwood, I wouldn’t try my patience.  This city may be yours, but I am not yours.

The name made Damon stiffen.  I felt sick to my stomach.  This guy, whatever he was, was familiar with us.  He wasn't your typical thief or distant foe.  It was a personal matter.

I tightened my jaw.  "What are these letters about?"  I insisted.

A look of near satisfaction crossed his face as his eyes strayed to the package in my hands.  "Responses you don't desire."

A shiver ran down my back.

Damon was lightning fast.  His rifle skidded across the floor as he snatched a nearby sculpture pedestal and smashed it into the man's arm before I could blink.

"Emma, run!"  Damon gave a bark.

Torn between combat and escape, I paused.  However, I was not abandoning Damon.  Not right now.  Never.

Rather, I did the only thing that came to me, which was to grab the closest fire alarm and pull it.

Red emergency lights flashed across the glossy walls as the siren blared, filling the gallery.  The guys encircling us paused, startled aback by the startling commotion.

Damon took the chance, launching himself with raw, relentless fury at the closest assailant.  The guy was sent falling to the ground when a blow hit squarely in his jaw.  However, they were in excess, and more were coming in via the doorway.

My thoughts were racing as I turned and gripped the mail box.  We had to go.

Damon moved with deadly accuracy, blocked punches, and struck like a man possessed.  However, I could see how he tightened, how he was suppressing himself just enough to avoid losing control.

Because there would be no turning back once he let everything go.

I had to take action.

I looked toward the emergency escape.  We came up with a rash idea that was our only hope.

"Damon!"  I yelled.  "In this manner!"

He heard me and dodged back toward me after delivering a last blow.  My heart thumping, I turned and ran for the door.  With Damon at my heels, we were walking in unison and our survival instincts were at full capacity.

But just as I opened the door, a cold, mocking voice sounded from behind us.

"Emma, you can run, but you can't escape the truth."

The door shut behind us, sealing the words within.

Outside, the city lights danced around us as we sprinted toward Damon's car. With sirens blasting and everyone turning to witness the chaos coming from the gallery, the streets were a whirl of action.

Damon opened the passenger door with a wrench before getting into the driver's seat. The engine roared to life as we dashed into the night.

I clutched the letters with shaking fingers, my breath still ragged.

Damon had a strong grip on the steering wheel and his face was a whirlpool of barely contained anger.

The words "We must discover the contents of those letters," he remarked in a threatening, low voice.

I swallowed hard and nodded.  "And we must determine to whom they belong."

Damon tightened his jaw.  "That bastard, whoever he was, just committed the greatest error of his life."

I felt a chill go through me.  Because I secretly knew—

Art theft was no longer the only issue.

This was larger.

Whatever mysteries were hidden in my background, they were going to alter everything.