It was a hot day, but cool inside the city museum. It was take-down and move day for the whole carnival, which always meant an afternoon off for Patrick Jane and his dad Alex. They'd pack up the show tent early but would wait and set off with the main convoy, accompanying the big rides and usually driving overnight to the new showground. Time off was one of the perks of being a showman rather than crew. Patrick usually took a bus to the local city museum or library: Alex hadn't accompanied him since he was around nine years old.

Patrick walked slowly to the end of the top floor gallery, taking around a minute to really look at the subject matter, composition and brushwork of each painting without using any words in his head to describe it. He thought of it as taking a visual representation of the image's component parts, which could then be inserted into his memory palace along with the title and artist's name from the painting's label: pictures without descriptive words, then adding labels to help reference the picture, all neatly hung in the various locations in his memory palace. It was a system he was still developing, though he was already very pleased with how well it was working. It worked even better on simpler images such as maps and plans, which had more obvious monetising potential, but he enjoyed the challenge of remembering entire works of art.

Not that this lot is worth remembering he thought to himself as he worked his way past the paintings. This was a gallery of mostly nineteenth century art by minor or local artists, definitely not to his taste: bowls of fruit, favourite livestock, domestic scenes. Barely more interesting than remembering playing cards. Less lucrative… That brought his thoughts back to his best friend, Angela. She was with the show too, clever and witty with a dry sense of humor but an overdeveloped sense of morality. She was mad with him at the moment for being so obsessed with money. He wondered if it would help telling her the money was just a way to keep score, his real obsession was with being the smartest guy in the room – any room. Would she find that better or worse? Worse, he decided. If I'm the smartest guy then everyone else in the room is a sucker, a mark. That was at the heart of her objection to the carnie life. 'Not everyone out there should be a mark,' she'd yelled at him and Danny. 'You should treat people with respect!' Well, yes, I'd never hook a mark if I had a disrespectful attitude.

He reached the end of the gallery and turned the corner. He had been expecting another gallery, but it was a dead end. It took less than a second for his eyes to sweep round a short stretch of corridor, abruptly blocked off by a partition wall containing a door marked 'Authorised Personnel Only'. To the right was an alcove with a large mountainous landscape in it: opposite was a matching alcove containing a padded bench and a trash can. He guessed this was where the Authorised Personnel came to eat their sandwiches at lunchtime and look at what was undoubtedly the best painting in their collection: a Durand, maybe, or a Cole. He would have smiled at the idea of the curators hanging it for their own benefit, in their break area, except there was a girl sitting on the bench opposite gazing over at the painting.

Patrick spent another couple of seconds looking her over. She was a little older than him, sixteen or seventeen maybe, shorter and a little chubby, sitting with her arms and legs tightly crossed. He swiftly took in everything he could. Well worn shoes, patched jeans, a slightly-too-small long-sleeved shirt tied at the waist rather than buttoned, no missing buttons but one was mis-matched in some way, he'd come back to that. A faded plain dark t-shirt, no make-up but clean long light brown hair, carefully braided in a French plait. Ah, there it was: the third shirt button down was a good colour match, but it had four holes while the others had just two. The girl was now looking steadily at him as he concluded she didn't have a mom or older sister, she might be in the system but no, in his experience foster parents at least made sure kids in their care had clothes that fit, even if they got them from the Goodwill store. This girl didn't have a social worker. She would have no money on her, not even enough in small change to buy them both a soda at the cafe. He carefully arranged his face into an apologetic smile, as if he was sorry to have interrupted. Maybe he couldn't con a drink out of her but she could still be useful practice. She was obviously wary and distrustful, so he would get her to tell him a secret. Satisfied with his observations and his conclusions, Patrick looked into her eyes for the first time.

'Hi,' he said lightly, while holding her gaze. 'I, uh, didn't know anyone was here.'

He watched her expression closely while the girl scanned behind him, briefly glanced back into his face then lowered her eyes and stared resolutely at the floor. Her eyes had been a surprisingly pale green colour with a dark ring round the outside of the iris, slightly bloodshot. She had looked at him with resentment but also with a much shrewder look than he had been expecting. She's been crying, no wonder she's feeling resentful, she's embarrassed about it and hoping I won't notice. If I can steer her past that awkwardness she'll open up like a flower. I'll get her secret – boyfriend trouble? – and be out of here in no time. His instincts said there was something else going on here. He must have seen something he hadn't yet been able to identify. Probably not run of the mill boyfriend trouble, he reflected.

'Well, I'm here.' Her voice surprised him and he froze for an instant. She was british! When he didn't make any reply she added, 'I'm not an exhibit, you know!' She had raised her eyes from the floor to glare at him. At her words he realised he was still staring at her in surprise. People didn't surprise him very often nowadays, he had always been good at cold reading and now he was becoming very fast too. What he'd found so incongruous was that her accent hadn't been the rural Midwest trailer-trash he'd expected. It reminded him of the Beatles; where had they come from again?

'British!' He found himself murmuring the word before he could stop himself and knew his surprise was showing on his face too. This isn't how it's meant to go! I should be in control here! Thinking fast, he decided to seem embarrassed too. He would let her see they had something in common, that they were both feeling uncomfortable about their encounter. Then he'd turn on the charm as he turned to leave, get her to call him back. Make her feel like she's calling the shots.

She was still reacting to his words. 'Wow, that's brilliant, Sherlock! I never realised I was British.' Her voice dripped with sarcasm and her expression had changed to one of disdain. He smiled inwardly. That had been witty, and pretty quick. And he liked the crack about Sherlock Holmes– he'd certainly enjoyed the books. Getting this girl to trust him might be more of a challenge than he had thought. Practice was always fun, but this could be fun.

Patrick contrived to look abashed – it wasn't something he had ever genuinely felt, he knew his fake look wasn't nearly as good as he wanted it to be – and quickly looked down at his feet. 'I'm sorry. You want to be alone, and here I am spouting stupid comments.' He looked back into her eyes, smiling, and held her gaze. It was a classic flirting move, one which had been successful for him more times than he could count, and he was gratified to see her start to blush. He softened his voice a little as he said 'I really didn't mean to intrude,' then raised his eyebrows in slight enquiry as he lowered his voice to a murmur to say 'Would you like me to leave?' He wanted her to believe he really would prefer to stay.

Her expression told him everything he wanted to know. She was still wary, ashamed about her outburst but flattered by his attention. As she said nothing, and the moment extended, he gave her a carefully-crafted rueful half-smile, holding her eyes in his for way too long. Not very pretty but she'd improve with just a little make-up. Her eyes are definitely her best feature, very unusual colour. Then he broke away first, glancing down at his shoes before putting his hands in his pockets and slowly starting to turn away. Would it be too much if I drop my shoulders dejectedly when I move off? he thought, and immediately the answer came back Yes. This girl would think I was mocking her.

After two steps she still hadn't said anything. Dammit, she should be calling me back by now! Three more would take him out of sight around the corner. Still hearing nothing from the girl he decided to move things along – he'd turn back and offer her the paper napkin he'd stolen earlier from the diner on the corner of Third and Spencer, as though he'd just found it in his pocket. Practical sympathy, not condescending pity, that's what I'm aiming for, he thought. If she takes it she'll find it harder to make me go away.

Patrick had turned his back to the girl on the bench but he stopped walking, span around and started to lift his hands out of his pockets in one swift movement. She had been watching him leave and as he turned back – to his horror – she flinched away from him with an expression of pure terror briefly flitting crossing her face. She hadn't just started in surprise at his sudden movement. She had been genuinely frightened, involuntarily cringing away from him and gasping quietly as though doing so had caused her some discomfort. He froze, still only half turned towards her, his hands still in his pockets and regarded her steadily looking for clues as to what had just happened. Her expression was transforming into a defiant look of pure bravado though the fear hadn't entirely faded from her eyes. He could see clearly now that her tightly-crossed arms were slightly lopsided: she was pressing her left arm to her ribs. Now the long-sleeved shirt and jeans on such a warm day made sense too. That's what I must have seen earlier, he thought. Not run-of-the-mill boyfriend trouble. She hasn't been dumped by some guy. She's been beaten up by him.