Nobody moved for a full second. The idea of someone still being inside the studio felt too absurd to accept immediately, but in Grayhaven, absurd things had a way of turning deadly the moment you treated them like a joke.
Brian was the first to break the stillness. "Back up," he said quietly. There was no humor in his voice, only a sharp, professional command.
Lucas shifted to the side of the bathroom door, his stance tight and hands ready, while Isaiah took the other side, silent and controlled as always. Harley stayed in front of the door for a half-beat, her eyes locked on the faint smear of paint around the knob. Alex stood near the entry, his phone already out to call for backup if the situation turned.
Harley leaned closer to the wood. "Who's in there?" she called out, her voice level.
Silence followed, then a sound that was barely audible—a thin, hoarse "Don't."
It was a woman's voice, sounding more broken than threatening. Isaiah's jaw tightened.
"We're opening it," Brian whispered.
Harley didn't argue. "On three," Lucas said. "One."
Harley stepped back.
"Two."
Isaiah's hand tightened on his grip.
"Three."
Lucas drove his shoulder into the door with a dull thud. The lock snapped, the door swung inward, and the woman inside flinched back as if she expected a blow. She wasn't armed; she was soaked in paint. It wasn't decorative—heavy oil streaks and raw pigments were smeared across her forearms and hair, looking like she'd tried to scrub them off and failed. She sat on the tile floor with her knees pulled to her chest, her eyes wide and bloodshot.
She looked to be in her late twenties. There was a bruise on her cheek, a cut on her lip, and faint red marks around her wrists—the kind left by someone holding on too tight. Brian lowered his voice automatically. "Ma'am. Are you hurt?"
"He's dead," she whispered, swallowing hard.
Harley's gaze flicked past the woman. The sink was stained with washed-out blue pigment, and the trash can was overflowing with rags, paper towels, and disposable gloves. It wasn't that "no one had been here"—it was that someone had been cleaning the wrong things.
Isaiah spoke quietly. "Who are you?"
The woman's mouth trembled. "Lena."
Harley waited. "Lena... what?"
"Lena Arden," she replied, the name itself seeming to cause her pain.
Brian went still, and Lucas stared. Arden—the same surname as Felix.
"Wife?" Harley asked, her eyes narrowing.
Lena shook her head too fast. "No. Sister."
"Why were you locked in a bathroom while your brother was dead in the next room?" Isaiah asked.
"I didn't lock it," she whispered. "He did."
"He?" Brian pressed.
Lena swallowed and looked toward the open studio door, her eyes searching the shadows as if she expected someone to be standing there. "...Hector."
The landlord.
__
They brought Lena out of the studio and into the hallway, wrapping her in a blanket borrowed from a neighbor. She sat against the wall, shivering, while Brian called for patrol to find Hector Givens. Lucas stayed with her while Harley and Isaiah went back inside the studio.
The air felt heavier now. The room had shifted from a puzzle into a crime scene. Harley stared at Felix Arden again—the paint on his hands, the wet canvas, the sealed door. Isaiah moved to the tape strip at the base of the door and crouched to examine the edge.
"Applied from the inside," he murmured.
Harley nodded. "And then it was meant to look untouched."
Isaiah's eyes scanned the room. "The wet paint."
Harley stepped closer to the canvas. It showed a blurred figure in dark tones with a doorframe in the background—it looked like a memory or a warning. She leaned in closer and saw it: in the corner, nearly hidden under a darker stroke, was a shape. Three numbers. They weren't clear, but they were close: 2...1...
Harley's jaw tightened. Isaiah saw it, but he didn't comment. They both knew better than to let a recurring number hijack a case before the facts were in. Harley touched the edge of the wet paint with a gloved finger. It was fresh—hours, not days.
That meant Felix had died recently. Someone had kept Lena inside long enough for her to nearly dehydrate, but not long enough for the painting to dry. Someone had been here after he died, either painting themselves or forcing someone else to do it.
Harley's gaze went to the sink again. Lena had paint on her, but Lena was the one in the bathroom. "Hector," Isaiah said, his voice dropping.
"Or someone he let in," Harley added.
__
Downstairs, Lena's voice was hoarse but steady enough to provide a timeline. "My brother didn't trust Hector," she said. "He only rented here because he needed the space. Hector kept coming in for 'inspections.'"
"Illegal entry," Brian noted.
Lena nodded. "He said Hector was stealing from him—paint, canvases—and then selling them."
"So Felix confronted him?" Lucas asked.
Lena swallowed hard. "Two nights ago. Felix called me and said he had proof. He was going to the police. Hector was forging his work."
Harley's gaze sharpened. "Proof of what?"
"Hector was forging his work," Lena repeated. The truth made sense—art forgery wasn't a loud crime; it was greedy, quiet, and cruel. "I came here yesterday morning. Felix wanted me to take his external drive to safety."
"Did you?" Harley asked.
"Not far," Lena whispered. "Because Hector showed up. He had keys. He came in angry, and Felix told me to lock myself in the bathroom."
Brian's jaw clenched. "And then?"
"They fought," Lena's voice broke. "Felix yelled. I heard something hit the floor. I opened the door just a crack and saw Felix... down. Hector was standing over him."
"Was Felix alive?" Harley asked quietly.
Lena shut her eyes tight. "I don't know. Hector saw me. He ran at me and shoved me into the bathroom, then locked it. He told me if I made a sound, he'd burn the whole place down."
Lucas looked sick. Lena continued, her hands shaking. "He came back later. Hours later. I could hear him moving things, cleaning, dragging something across the floor."
"Dragging Felix into position," Harley realized.
"And then... I smelled paint," Lena said.
Isaiah's eyes narrowed. "He was painting."
Lena stared at her own stained hands. "He took Felix's brush. He started painting and talking to himself. He said... 'If the last thing he makes is mine, it's mine forever.'"
The room went dead silent. That was the motive: not money or panic, but possession and control—the desire to steal a man's identity and sign your own name to it.
"So he killed him," Harley said, her voice cold.
Lena nodded, tears finally sliding down her cheeks. "And he sealed the door so nobody could say someone had come in."
__
They didn't wait for Hector to return; they made him. Alex pulled the landlord's number from the lease file and Brian called, putting it on speaker. After a few rings, Hector answered, sounding breathless. "What?"
"Hector, this is Detective Keller," Brian said, his voice perfectly calm. "We need you to return to the building."
Hector went still. "...Why?"
Brian didn't threaten him. He lied. "We found your master key set at Felix Arden's studio. If you didn't enter, you'll want to explain."
There was a long pause before Hector's voice sharpened. "I didn't—"
"Then come clear your name," Brian cut in smoothly.
Silence followed, then a reluctant, "Fine."
Harley looked at Brian. He looked back, his mouth tight. "He's coming," he said. "Because he can't stand the idea that someone thinks he's guilty." It was the kind of ego you could weaponize.
__
Hector arrived forty minutes later, storming into the lobby as if anger could substitute for innocence. He froze when he saw the police presence in the hallway.
"Hector Givens," Brian said, stepping forward.
"What is this?" Hector's jaw tightened.
"Where were you last night?" Lucas asked.
Hector scoffed. "Home. Alone."
"Alone?" Isaiah asked, not moving an inch.
Hector's eyes flicked nervously. "...Yes."
Harley watched him. He wasn't reacting to the questions, but to the building itself—to the knowledge that his carefully staged studio had been entered and read. Brian spoke calmly. "We found a witness."
Hector went perfectly still. "Witness?" he repeated, his voice rising. "There was no one in that studio."
Harley stepped forward. "That's your problem," she said quietly. "You sealed the door so perfectly you forgot someone was still inside."
The mask slipped. For half a second, Hector's face drained of color, then he lunged—not at Brian, but at Harley, as if he needed to destroy the person who had seen through him. Isaiah reacted instantly, catching Hector's shoulder and slamming him against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed art in the hallway. Brian cuffed him before the struggle could even truly begin.
"You don't get it!" Hector spat, struggling against the restraints. "He was nothing without people like me! He was wasting it—wasting what he had!"
Harley stared at him. "You didn't want his work. You wanted his name."
"You think you're better because you can make art?" Hector's eyes flashed with fury. "I can make it too. I can make it look just like him. People buy it. People believe it. He didn't deserve it, and I did!"
There it was: the full truth. It wasn't an accident or a mistake, but an entitlement so deep it made murder feel like a justified business move.
"Hector Givens, you are under arrest for the murder of Felix Arden, unlawful imprisonment, and evidence tampering," Brian said, tightening his grip.
Hector's laughter was ugly. "You'll never find the rest. You'll never know how many are mine."
__
They found the external drive, but not in the studio. It was in Hector's storage locker, hidden inside a toolbox beneath a false bottom. Alex spent hours pulling it apart and recovered dozens of forged images—paintings signed, sold, and documented under false provenance. Some were already in galleries; others were in private collections.
On the drive, they found Felix's final video, recorded just a day before his death. His voice sounded tired and disgusted. "If anything happens, check Hector. He's been copying me for months. If he kills me, he'll try to make my last piece his."
Harley watched the video once, then closed the laptop. She didn't want to give Hector the satisfaction of living in her head any longer than necessary. Lena was placed in protective care, remaining quiet as they took her official statement. Before she left, she looked at Harley with exhausted eyes.
"He kept saying he could become Felix," she whispered.
"He can't," Harley said, and she meant it. No matter how many copies someone made, the original always left a mark that couldn't be forged.