Lance “Sharp” Hartman wasn’t known for his subtlety. As an undercover agent moonlighting as a private investigator, his sharp tongue and even sharper instincts made sure he didn’t miss much. When he got the call about a bachelor party gone wrong in the quiet streets of Ridgetown Heights, he was annoyed more than anything. The last thing he wanted was to babysit drunk frat boys, but the client was persistent. Something was off.
He pulled up to a modest house where streamers hung limply, clashing with the flashing blue and red of police lights. The groom-to-be, Dustin Hollis, stood by the curb, pale and shivering under a wool coat.
“Lance Hartman. PI. I’m here to help,” Lance said, flashing his badge.
Dustin winced. “I didn’t call you.”
“No, but your fiancée did. Sheila’s worried you won’t make it to the altar if you keep finding trouble. What happened?”
Dustin fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable. “It was just supposed to be a few drinks—”
“Let’s skip to the part where things went sideways, yeah?” Lance interrupted.
Dustin gestured toward the house. “Somebody brought a gift, a painting. And then… everything changed. A fight broke out. My buddy Lou and Marcus—the painter—they started swinging.”
“A painter? At a bachelor party?” Lance asked, eyebrow raised.
“Yeah, Marcus Drexler. Weird guy. Too agreeable, if you ask me. But Lou… Lou has this thing with him. A feud. Been going on for years. I thought tonight, they’d let it slide.”
The name Drexler triggered something in Lance’s memory. An old case, involving counterfeit art and dirty money. Couldn’t be a coincidence.
“Where’s Marcus now?”
“Inside. He stayed calm through the whole thing. Which is weird, ‘cause Lou’s not exactly gentle.”
Lance strode into the house. The once-celebratory living room was a disaster: tables overturned, beer cans rolling underfoot. Amid the chaos, Marcus Drexler stood quietly by the fireplace, his arms crossed. Tall and lean, with the hands of a man accustomed to a paintbrush, he looked unbothered by the carnage.
“Marcus Drexler?” Lance asked, stepping closer.
Marcus turned, his face a mask of calm. “That’s me. You must be the private dick.”
“Agent. Hartman. Want to tell me what this is really about? Because it’s starting to smell like more than a misunderstanding.”
Marcus’s smile was thin, his eyes sharp. “I’m just an artist, Mr. Hartman. I paint, I deliver, I get paid. Lou’s the one who brought the drama.”
“Drama follows a man with secrets,” Lance said, stepping into Marcus’s personal space. “So, what was in that painting?”
Marcus chuckled. “A gift, for the groom. Something that reminded him of a second chance.”
Lance’s brow furrowed. “Second chance?”
Before Marcus could reply, Lou burst into the room, bloodied and wild-eyed, shouting, “You son of a—”
Lance stepped between them. “Enough!” His voice cut through the tension like a blade. “No more brawling until I get answers. What’s the real story here?”
Lou was breathing heavily, wiping blood from his lip. “That painting… it’s from the past. Something I buried a long time ago. Marcus knew. He’s been holding it over me for years.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow, his tone still infuriatingly calm. “I wasn’t holding anything, Lou. I was giving you an out. That painting—” he gestured to the large canvas leaning against the wall, “is a gift. A reminder that you can let go.”
Lance’s eyes narrowed. “Let go of what?”
Lou hesitated, glancing at the painting. “My ex. Serena. Marcus knew I was in love with her. And when she left… he painted this. It’s her, standing at the pier, leaving me behind. I couldn’t take it. Not back then. But tonight, he brought it to remind me. To twist the knife.”
Lance looked at the painting, then back at Marcus. “Why now?”
Marcus’s expression softened for the first time. “Because I thought it was time Lou forgave himself. Serena’s gone, man. She’s not coming back, and neither are the old days. It’s a second chance, Lou. For you to move on.”
Lance felt the weight of the moment. Marcus, for all his suspicious agreeability, had delivered something unexpected—a lifeline.
Lou, breathing hard, finally slumped into a chair. “Maybe you’re right,” he muttered.
Lance, ever the cynic, shot Marcus a glance. “Not every day a feud ends with an unexpected gift. I’ll be watching you, Drexler. Feels like you’ve still got something to hide.”
Marcus smirked. “I’ll be around, Hartman. But maybe not everything’s a conspiracy.”
As Lance left the house, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the painting had changed more than just Lou. It was a rare night in the life of a hardboiled investigator—when second chances came wrapped in canvas instead of cuffs.
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