Rain came down in slow, steady sheets.
The city street outside the offsite storage facility glowed with reflected light --neon signs blurring across wet pavement, headlights stretching into long, trembling lines as cars passed in the distance.
Galathea Brooks sat in the passenger seat of Cael Alexander's car, staring through the windshield.
Neither of them had spoken for several minutes.
The engine hummed quietly beneath them. The heater pushed warm air through the vents, but the damp chill of the night clung stubbornly to her clothes.
The ruined painting wouldn't leave her mind.
Three cuts.
Clean.
Efficient.
Someone had known exactly how to kill it.
She rubbed her hands together slowly, trying to push away the lingering smell of oil paint and metal that seemed embedded in her skin.
"We were too late," she said finally.
Cael didn't look away from the road ahead. "Yes."
The answer was simple.
No comfort.
No excuses.
Galathea appreciated that.
