Chapter 1: The Bargain
The sun was beating down hard on the asphalt of the county fairgrounds, the kind of mid-July heat that made the air shimmer above the rows of folding tables. Martha Evans adjusted her rimless glasses, feeling the sweat bead at her hairline. She should have stayed home with her iced tea and her book club selection, but the lure of the Saturday flea market was a habit she couldn't break. It was her weekly ritual, a way to fill the silence of the house since her husband, Bill, passed three years ago. She wandered past tables of rusted tools and bins of mismatched Tupperware, her canvas bag bumping rhythmically against her hip.
She almost walked past the table at the very end of row G. It was sparse, just a few cardboard boxes and a lamp with a frayed cord. But leaning against a stack of National Geographics was a painting. It was small, maybe 12 by 16 inches, encased in a heavy, grimy gold frame that had seen better days. The image itself was dark—an oil painting of a solitary farmhouse standing in a field of dead wheat, under a sky that looked like a bruise. It wasn't pretty, but it pulled at her. It felt lonely.
"How much for the painting?" Martha asked, looking up. The seller was a man she didn’t recognize, which was rare for this market. He was younger, perhaps forty, but he looked ragged. He wore a stained baseball cap pulled low, and his eyes darted left and right, scanning the crowd behind her. He was sweating profusely, far more than the heat warranted. He flinched when she spoke, his hands shaking as he stuffed cheap porcelain figurines into a box.
"Five dollars," he mumbled, not making eye contact. Martha blinked. "Five? The frame alone is worth twenty, even in this condition." "Just take it," he snapped, his voice rising in pitch. He shoved the painting toward her, his dirty fingernails digging into the wood. "Five dollars. Cash. Now."
Martha instinctively took a step back, clutching her bag. "Alright, alright. No need to be rude." She fished a five-dollar bill from her coin purse and placed it on the table. He snatched it up immediately, stuffing it into his pocket without counting it. He didn't offer a bag. He didn't say thank you. He just turned his back to her and started throwing his remaining items into a trash bag.
Martha took the painting, surprised by its weight. It felt solid, older than she initially thought. "Have a nice day," she said stiffly, her politeness a reflex she couldn't turn off. The man didn't answer. He was already collapsing the legs of his table, moving with a frantic, jerky energy that made Martha uneasy.
She walked away, hugging the painting to her chest to protect it from the jostling crowd. The heavy oils smelled of dust and old tobacco smoke. When she reached the exit gate, about fifty yards away, curiosity got the better of her. She paused and turned around to get one last look at the strange seller.
The table was gone. The space where he had been standing was empty. Martha scanned the parking lot and saw a beat-up blue sedan peeling out of a parking space, tires screeching. The car swerved violently onto the main road, nearly clipping a pickup truck, and sped away as if the devil himself were in the rearview mirror.
