“Someone was there? Who?” The panic in his voice would be satisfying if I weren’t still picking human remains from my clothes. “A journalist. She called you ‘The Gallery Killer’ while recording notes into her phone.” I slouch in my seat as she slides into her ride. “Apparently, you’re famous enough to have your own nickname now. Meanwhile, I’ll probably end up in a footnote as ‘unnamed accomplice found in dumpster after mysterious accident.’” “The Gallery Killer?” His voice perks up, artistic vanity trumping survival instinct. “That’s actually quite good. Has a certain ring to it. Did she
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