Midnight Medusa. Stephanie Draven

Renata could offer her hand, the tall woman thrust a business card into her palm. “Ms. Rukavina, my nephew sang your praises and I must say, he was not wrong. Your work is devastating.”

      At a loss, Renata asked, “Your nephew?”

      “He’s a police officer. I believe he helped you with a break-in at your studio? I hope you weren’t hurt.”

      The detective. Of course. Now that she thought about it, Renata remembered the Greek cast to his features and could almost see them reflected in the severe face of his formidable aunt. “No, no, I wasn’t hurt. I’m honored by the detective’s interest in my work—and yours too.”

      Ms. Kokkinos nodded curtly. “I’m particularly interested in The War Criminal. Would you be willing to make similar sculptures on commission?”

      Renata tried not to show her astonishment. No one had ever commissioned a work from her before. “What do you have in mind?”

      “I’d like you to sculpt this man.”

      Renata already had the woman’s business card in one hand, so she had to reach with the other for the sketch. In so doing, she glanced at the drawing and her heart lurched.

      She knew the face.

      This was the face of the soldier who abducted her mother. And upon seeing him again, Renata’s knees threatened to buckle beneath her.

      Ms. Kokkinos must have seen the horror writ plain on Renata’s face, because she eyed Renata owlishly and said, “You needn’t haggle over the price. I’m an heiress to a vast fortune, so you’ll be generously compensated.”

      Renata didn’t want to be rude, but she felt bloodless and unsteady. “Would you mind—would you mind terribly if I took a moment to get some air?”

      Renata didn’t wait for a reply. Clutching the drawing and the business card, she hastily withdrew, navigating her way around the velvet gallery ropes and pushing through the crowd. Renata headed straight for the exit that led to the fire-escape balcony. She just hoped she could get there before her knees gave way.

      She found the door and flung it open. Without looking at the sketch again, she folded it into a small square around the business card and tucked both inside her bra, close to her heart. Then Renata took deep, comforting gulps of air. It had always been like this when someone triggered an unexpected memory. Even after her surgeries, when the doctors helped find a way for her to stay in the country, news from Bosnia panicked her. Even when she was safe in an American school, loud noises, such as a bell signaling the end of class, sometimes froze her heart within her chest.

      Now as the fresh air calmed her jitters, Renata sighed with relief. The scars on her back were bothering her, but when she reached behind to adjust her dress, she realized that it wasn’t the fabric irritating her. Something hard and unyielding dug into her, and as she brushed it with her fingers, she realized it was the barrel of a gun.

      “Don’t scream,” a man said from behind her. His arm wrapped around her, hard as iron, and he clamped a hand over her mouth.

      Renata tried to decide if she should kick him or impale his foot with the stiletto heel of her golden sandal. But before she could decide, he hauled her towards the rail. “We’re going down the fire escape stairs.”

      This was the second time in two days that someone had tried to abduct her at gunpoint, but unlike the lumbering intruder, this man had a graceful strength that prevented her from raking at him with her fingernails when she tried.

      “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, sighing deeply by her ear. Suddenly, she smelled acrid smoke and charred flesh, the horrible stench of war. The stink of the explosion, the sensation of being on fire, and the sizzle of her own skin as it burned. Then came the blinding pain and the screaming, and remembering, she was overcome.