The Drop

They’re fucking with me. Leave the money here? Under a sign for The Drop? A little on-the-nose, don’t you think? Why not just sell it? Holding artwork for ransom seemed like just another trending crime, until it was mine—lifted right off my wall. Irreplaceable, like a spouse or a child might be, I suppose. I finger the envelope in my pocket and I think about my precious in the hands of some ingrate. Her grace and her depth. And her market value. I’m unaccustomed to having the lesser hand...