He Stole the Painting of Our First Kiss

How it begins

The auction catalogue described the painting as an intimate study by an unknown hand.

Tessa Navarro knew the hand. It was hers. So was the bedroom window, the blue cup, and the curve of the man's shoulder disappearing beyond the edge of the canvas.

She had painted it the morning after their first kiss.

She had never offered it for sale.

"It's not a very good likeness," Tom Sen said behind her.

Tessa closed the catalogue so sharply the receptionist looked up.

Tom stood beneath a discreet security camera, wearing a coat she remembered and a face she had spent four years trying not to draw from memory.

"Of a thief?" she asked. "I disagree."

He looked toward the receptionist. "Can we talk somewhere private?"

"You lost the right to arrange my privacy when you stole it."

That landed. Good. She wanted at least one thing in the room to belong exactly where she'd put it.

Beyond the glass doors, workers were hanging paintings for the evening viewing. Hers waited on a padded trolley, small between two landscapes that would sell for more than her flat. A white label gave it a history she had never lived.

Tom lowered his voice. "I can explain how it got here."

"Start with why it left my studio."

"Those are different explanations."

Tessa looked at him for a long moment. The old attraction arrived without invitation, unwelcome as a song from a difficult year. She refused to mistake recognition for trust.

She took out her phone and photographed the catalogue page, the lot number, and the painting's frame.

"I have a solicitor," she said. "And a friend waiting outside. You can explain with both of them present."

Tom stepped back from the doorway.

It was a small movement. It was also the first useful thing he'd done.