Chapter Eleven – Scene Three: Echoes in Acrylic
1089 Words
The scent of turpentine hung in the air like grief.
Amaka stood in the gallery’s central room, arms crossed over her chest, trying not to crumble. The place that once felt sacred now felt… violated. Yellow police tape crisscrossed the entry, and shattered glass crackled beneath her boots as she paced.
“Miss Obi?” Officer Redding’s voice was too gentle, which only made it worse. “We’ll need you to confirm the inventory list. Some of these pieces were they part of your upcoming showcase?”
Amaka nodded stiffly. “Some were loaned from collectors. A few were originals mine.”
She hated how her voice shook on that last part.
The painting Clarence had slashed a large-format oil on canvas, titled Balance in Blue was a self-portrait she’d never intended to show. Raw, bold strokes. Her eyes looking straight into the viewer. Vulnerable. Clarence had gutted it from corner to corner.
Redding jotted something on his notepad. “Nothing was stolen, though. Just destroyed.”
“That's almost worse,” she whispered.
Another officer took photos nearby, the flash punctuating the silence like lightning strikes. The room looked surreal in the chaos colors smeared across the walls, a crimson spray-can message still dripping near the exit:
“IT WAS NEVER JUST ART.”
Who left it?
Clarence’s fingerprints were nowhere, but the violence bore his signature. Wild. Specific. Personal.
“Do you have any idea who might’ve done this?” Redding asked.
Amaka opened her mouth. Closed it.
She wanted to say yes. That she suspected Clarence. That maybe Folarin was involved in something deeper than he let on. But she’d seen the look in Folarin’s eyes when he arrived earlier, panic carved into calm. He hadn’t known.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “But this wasn’t random. Someone was sending a message.”
“Would you feel safer staying somewhere else tonight?” he asked, gently.
She nodded, not trusting her voice. Then her phone buzzed.
Unknown number. No ID.
She frowned and swiped to open it.
TEXT: You need to ask him about the island. About what he buried there.
Her blood went cold.
There was no name. No follow-up. Just that one line cryptic, precise. She stared at it for several seconds, reading it again and again. The island. Buried?
It couldn’t be Clarence. He wasn’t the type to text. This was someone else. Someone watching.
She glanced out the front window, eyes scanning the street.
No one.
“Everything alright?” Officer Redding asked.
She forced a smile. “Just noise.”
He nodded and stepped away. But the noise inside her wasn’t going anywhere.
She scrolled back through her messages. No name. No clue. Just that seed, planted like poison.
Her thoughts spiraled back to Folarin how he never spoke about certain parts of his past. How he’d once told her, “Some memories aren’t buried they’re waiting.”
She pocketed her phone, heart beating like a drum.
If someone was digging up Folarin’s secrets, she needed to know how deep the dirt went.
And if Clarence was really behind this… she had to decide before someone else bled.
Chapter Eleven – Scene Four: The Quiet Before the Shatter
The door creaked open too soft to be the police.
Amaka turned sharply, tensing instinctively, her fingers tightening around her phone like a weapon.
Then she saw him.
Folarin.
His silhouette filled the entrance, the faint light from the street casting long shadows across the ruined gallery. He paused just inside the threshold, scanning the destruction with the quiet caution of someone stepping into a war zone.
His eyes met hers and something in his chest seemed to buckle.
“Amaka…”
She didn’t speak. Just looked at him, eyes wide with the residual fear she hadn’t fully shaken, pain vibrating under her skin like a fault line ready to crack.
He stepped forward. Slowly. “They told me. I came as soon as I heard.”
“You didn’t answer my calls,” she said, her voice sharper than she meant.
“I was... I’ve been handling something.” His voice was low, graveled with exhaustion. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “But this I didn’t know. I swear.”
She studied him, silently. He could always say the right words, wrap them in sincerity. But right now, she wasn’t sure if it was instinct or trust that held her back from accusing him.
Folarin’s gaze drifted to the shredded painting Balance in Blue. His jaw tightened.
“This was yours,” he murmured.
She nodded. “And he knew that.”
He didn’t ask who. Didn’t need to.
“It was Clarence, wasn’t it?” he said quietly.
Amaka hesitated. “I don’t know. But someone left a message.”
She turned her phone toward him and showed the text.
His expression didn’t change. But his hand dropped to his side, forming a fist.
You need to ask him about the island. About what he buried there
“I don’t know what that means,” she said softly. “But I think you do.”
Folarin looked away, jaw shifting, the weight of memory clouding his features
“Folarin.”
“I don’t want you caught up in this,” he said. “Not like this. You shouldn’t have to ”
“Too late,” she cut in. “They came into my world. They ripped through my sanctuary. So tell me what this means, or I walk.”
His eyes snapped back to hers. “You’d walk?”
“If it means protecting myself from whatever this is? Yes.”
The silence hung between them heavy, sharp-edged. He stepped closer, slowly, and Amaka didn’t move.
“I buried a part of myself on that island,” he said finally. “With Tevin. With a name I don’t use anymore. But I never thought it would crawl its way back up.”
“You need to start talking, Folarin,” she said, her voice breaking slightly. “Before someone else tries to tell me your story for you.”
He looked at her for a long time, something breaking behind his eyes.
Then he nodded, once reluctantly, heavily.
“I’ll tell you. Everything.”
But as he said it, her phone buzzed again.
Same unknown number.
TEXT: He’s lying. You don’t know what he’s capable of.
Amaka stared at the message.
And for the first time, she felt something colder than fear.
Doubt.
- Writer
