Molly's publicist probably deserved a raise.

Instead of throwing his arms up in despair over the loss of over fifty completed paintings and a few unfinished pieces as well, he'd booked a private gallery for the next week.

Sierra was there both as a friend, and in a professional capacity, having promised to write a short article on the exhibit for The Post. She arrived at 8:00 pm, iPad at the ready and photographer in tow.

The sign in edgy painted letters hanging just inside the door declared the name of the exhibit "Home Invasion". At it's center was the charcoal police sketch Molly had made of Eric. It was accompanied by a series of stark, gut wrenching photographs of Molly's bruised face. And then there were the paintings. The slashed canvases had been proudly framed and hung on the gallery walls. The shredded strips swayed slightly in the breeze generated by the A/C. Each one hung next to a small sign declaring it's "former" title, medium, and price tag.

The price tags were nothing to scoff at.

Sierra noted that several pieces were already marked as sold. She paused to listen in a couple admired one.

"It just makes you feel like everything is so fleeting," the woman was saying. "Like it can all be taken away from you at any moment."

The woman clutched her date's hand, who put his arm around her protectively. Sierra felt a pang of sadness, thinking about Joe.

She had tried to call him. After failing to get a response on his cell phone she'd repeatedly tried his office and his home. Sierra was sure the staff had grown tired of pretending he wasn't there. She even considered driving out to Sleuth, but rationality and self-preservation had won out in the end.

She just wanted to tell him he was being an idiot. Did he really think she was any safer not being with him? The damage was done. As long as Eric was out there and making his power play, she was in danger. So what did it hurt for them to be together? Life, as the woman viewing Molly's slashed up painting had pointed out, was fleeting.

Molly was at the center of everyone's attention, sipping a glass of burgundy while she recounted the attack to the awed spectators. The bruise on her face had blossomed into shades of purple and green her publicist had insisted she not cover up.

Sierra could not for the life of her decide if the whole spectacle was a particularly appalling example of commercialism gone mad, or a legitimately great art piece born of the kind of suffering great artists are known for. For Molly's sake, she decided the spin of her article would definitely be the latter.

Sierra pushed her way through the crowd towards Molly.

She whispered to her, "That couple over there just paid $2,500 for what I told you to throw in the trash."

"I know!" Molly whispered back enthusiastically, "Don't remind me. My publicist says I'm not supposed to smile too much."

Her photographer, James, approached them with a smile.

"You ready to take some pictures?" he asked.

He took several shots of Molly posed with the police sketch. He even insisted on one of the two of them together.

"It was your apartment too," he said. "You're a part of this story, Sierra. I shouldn't have to tell you that."

Dutifully, Sierra stood next to Molly.

"Serious or smiling?" she asked.

"Definitely serious," he said.

Damon, their three to eleven guy, lurked in the background, looking extra conspicuous amongst the clean cut, art buying crowd. He had followed Molly to the gallery earlier. Zeke was pulling a double, sticking close to Sierra. Currently he was chatting up a pretty young socialite who couldn't peel her eyes away from his muscular chest. Sierra had gathered that poor Zeke was working doubles as punishment for telling her what was going on in Sleuth. At least he didn't seem to be hating this one.

Sierra said goodnight to Molly and went to get her coat. Zeke was still entirely focused on the pretty brunette. Sierra tried to come up with any way she could interrupt them without ruining his chances with her. Every scenario she could think of made her look like the girlfriend. Deciding she could surely survive the walk to the car without him, she slipped out of the gallery and into the night.

It was about a five-minute walk back to her car. Sierra pulled her coat tighter against the cold and started down the sidewalk. The street was mostly deserted, and the flickering lights overhead made her shadow dance on the pavement. Her black high heels echoed loudly. Regretting her decision to leave Zeke behind more and more by the minute, Sierra rounded the corner on to the street where he car was parked.

There was the Prius, parked on the corner thirty feet away from her. Eric was leaning against it.