Sign the resignation letter, Eleanor, or I’ll make sure every gallery in this city

“Before I sign anything,” I said softly, “I’d like to know which gallery you plan to call first.” Vivian laughed. “Don’t be pathetic. You have no leverage.” I reached into my blazer pocket and pulled out a small brass key. Slid it across the desk. “That opens the storage vault on Mercer Street. The one you’ve been quietly emptying for eighteen months.” Her smile cracked, just at the corners. “Excuse me?” I turned my laptop around. On the screen: forty-seven authenticated pieces, each one logged into our private inventory, each one sold through a shell company registered to her sister in Lisbon. Invoices. Wire transfers. Forged certificates of provenance with my signature traced from a 2009 catalog. “I noticed the first discrepancy in March,” I said. “I’ve been documenting ever since.” The lawyer slowly set down his pen. One board member reached for her phone. Vivian’s voice went sharp. “You can’t prove I knew about any of this.” “I don’t have to,” I said. “The FBI Art Crime Team already does. Agent Reyes has been copied on every email you sent from this building since January. The studio Wi-Fi belongs to me, Vivian. I never transferred the network registration.” The room went very still. I stood up, smoothed my blazer, and looked at the board. “As of this morning, I’ve bought out each of your shares through my attorney. The paperwork was finalized at nine a.m. You walked into a studio that no longer has a board.” I turned to Vivian, who had gone the color of raw canvas. “You wanted my name off the door by Friday. I had yours removed by Tuesday.” I picked up the resignation letter she’d written for me, folded it neatly, and tucked it into her purse. “Keep it. You’ll need something to read while you wait for Agent Reyes. He said he’d be here by noon.” The brass key glinted on the desk between us. I walked to my easel, picked up a brush, and began to paint.