Tokyo Heist by Diana Renn

Skye might make the Yamadas worry the yakuza will follow him, too. They could postpone the Japan trip or call off the whole mural commission. Bottom line: if I blow this opportunity for my dad, he’ll never forgive me.
    I wish I could tell Edge about my run-in with Skye. He leaves for film camp tomorrow. There’s still time. I could call and apologize, then fill him in on the mystery. But a part of me knows it would be like painting a dark canvas white. The ugly underpainting would seep through. My dad may have disguised his damaged living room wall by turning it into artwork, but it doesn’t mean the damage is gone. Inspecting the wall now, I see the stains are oozing beneath his paint, the cracks in the plaster still spreading.
    We just have to get through two more days, and then we’re out of here, and maybe time and distance will ease some of the pain I have about Edge. I decide to spend the morning packing for Japan, thinking of the future instead of the past.
    In her last email, after a paragraph of exclamation points in response to my upcoming trip, Reika advised me to load up on gifts for people I meet in Japan. “Baseball cards, key chains, Seattle knickknacks. Small gifts will open doors here.” So after lunch, I venture out and hit the Fremont shops to buy some omiyage . As I head back to my dad’s house, I pass Deluxe Junk. I pause in the doorway, but the smell of musty old things is an overpowering reminder of Edge, and the day we danced together. My eyes fill with tears. I hurry back to my dad’s house.
    And I stop cold when I see a plain white van parked outside. I approach slowly. No driver. The yakuza might have changed their vehicle. They might have come looking for my dad because of his connection to Skye. Oh my God. Could they be in the house ?
    I mount the steps and take out my key, but the front door is already cracked open. I grab a stick of driftwood, though I have no idea what to do with it. Men’s voices mumble upstairs.
    “Dad?” I call into the house.
    “In the studio, Violet,” my dad calls back. “Come on up.”
    He doesn’t sound like he’s in mortal danger or talking through layers of duct tape. I run upstairs, still holding the stick.
    I set it down when I see it’s just Julian Fleury and my dad in the studio, flipping through stacks of canvases. Everything looks normal, except the studio is messier than ever. It’s like a windstorm has scattered art supplies, drop cloths, unframed canvases, books, and bits of nature in cryptically labeled boxes. “ Reflections on Wind. ” “ Moss, etc. ” “ Random Sticks. ” “ Shifting Sands. ” “ Detritus. ”
    “Violet, you remember Julian Fleury, Margo’s assistant? He’s here to pick up some work for the Tokyo show.”
    Julian nods curtly at me and hefts four unframed paintings onto a table. “I’ll just get these crated and load up the van.” He opens a toolbox. Then he glances at the boxes and portfolio that Skye brought over the day before. “These are the Japanese prints we’re taking for the Yamadas? Did Skye finish the re-matting?”
    “I haven’t looked at them yet, but yeah, I’d assume they’re all set.”
    “Oh, really? I wouldn’t assume anything about that woman,” Julian mutters.
    “What is with everyone suspecting her?”
    “What’s with your defending her honor?” Julian snaps. “It doesn’t exactly make you look good, being associated with her. It doesn’t make Margo or me look good, either. Everything you do casts a shadow on us. We had detectives taking pictures outside the gallery today.”
    “Look. Can’t we put this whole Skye thing behind us?”
    They’re circling the table, glaring at each other, as if they might draw swords.
    I back up and try to become one with a file cabinet.
    “What you did, Glenn, was unacceptable. Just because you’re some hotshot artist, you think you can swoop in and steal any woman.”
    “Whoa! I did not ‘steal’ your woman!”
    “That is a