“Mrs. Hayes,” he breathed. “This is an exceptional example. It is in magnificent condition. We would be absolutely honored to feature this as the centerpiece of our spring fine arts auction.” “What do you think it will fetch?” I asked, already knowing the ballpark, but wanting to hear it out loud.

“Conservatively? We will start the bidding at $80,000. But given the current market for Italian antiques with this kind of documented provenance, I would not be surprised to see it break six figures.” I smiled. It was a very different smile than the one I had given Marcus.

The sale was scheduled for a Saturday three weeks away. The auction house put together a stunning, glossy catalog. My violin was featured on a full-page spread, beautifully lit to highlight the golden-brown varnish, complete with a detailed history of its creation and my own tenure playing it in the symphony.

When the official catalog page went live online, I printed it out in full color. I bought a heavy, expensive cream-colored envelope. I slipped the printed page inside, along with a handwritten note on my personal stationery. Dear Marcus, Thank you so much for your generous offer of $50 for my student instrument.

I’ve decided to take my chances at auction instead. I have enclosed a VIP pass for the event. I would love it if you came. Who knows? You might learn something about the antique business. Warmly, The Fish in the Barrel I mailed it directly to his company’s office address.

Saturday arrived with a crackle of nervous energy. The auction house was packed. The room smelled of expensive cologne, old paper, and money. There were rows of well-dressed collectors, dealers, and gallery owners, with a bank of staff handling telephone bids at the side of the room.

I was seated in a private viewing box near the front. And right before the musical instruments category began, I saw him.

Marcus walked into the back of the room. He wasn’t wearing his smug polo shirt today; he had thrown on a slightly wrinkled suit jacket.

He looked entirely out of place, clutching the auction catalog in his hands, his eyes darting around the opulent room. He had actually come. I imagine his ego couldn’t handle the mystery, or perhaps he truly thought I was bluffing and wanted to see the “student instrument” fail to sell.

The auctioneer took the podium. After a few lesser items, the room went quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, we now come to Lot 42. A truly remarkable piece of musical history.” The violin was brought out on a velvet display cushion. The auctioneer read its history, its maker, and its provenance.

I watched Marcus from my seat. From across the room, I saw him look down at his catalog, then up at the stage, the blood visibly draining from his face. “We shall open the bidding at eighty thousand dollars,” the auctioneer announced. A paddle shot up immediately in the second row. “Eighty thousand.