The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) (16 page)

“So you’ve never met him?”

I shake my head.

“And you’re okay with that?”

“How could I not be okay with it? I don’t know his last name. How could I find him?”

“Your mom never told you his full name? Was it a one-night stand?”

“Of course not. They dated a few months, but he was always in and out of town because of his job.”

“What did he do?”

“Sold fabric. It took him all over the world.” Mom told me his favorite country was India. He regaled her with stories of textile factories in which women would plunge silks and linens in vats of dye, then hand bead intricate motifs along the seams. He promised to take her there someday, but that day never dawned. “So, where
do
you live?”

“I have an apartment by Washington Square Park. Close to NYU. Still have a year left, unless I get into the Masterpiecers.”

“I thought you were so sure you were going to win.”

“Only idiots don’t doubt themselves. But I’m still planning on crushing you, and the others.” There’s a glimmer in his brown eyes. In some other life, he must’ve been a bloodthirsty revolutionary. I can just picture him running across a field, armed with a rifle and a ferocious will to kill. “Shouldn’t you go get changed?”

“I’m not planning on swimming.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because what?”

“I just don’t feel like it, okay?” I stab the last piece of waffle and stuff it inside my mouth just as Maxine walks back in, telling us just how excited she is to get out of the museum. And then the rest of the group follows, and an assistant walks us down to the underground parking lot.

Except for the sleek black minivan, the garage is deserted. Unlike Fifth Avenue. Clouds of people and clusters of news vans swarm the street. The second our ride emerges, the paparazzi start shooting. Considering the windows are tinted, I doubt their pictures will be worth anything, but they click away nonetheless. Some even trail us all the way downtown, to what Maxine tells me is the Meatpacking District. It seems like we’ve left the city. The streets aren’t grid-like anymore. Instead, they jut out in all directions, and the buildings are squatter and wider, like warehouses.

Brook’s building is entirely covered with black glass that shimmers in the light of the midday sun. I count seven stories, which is not tall for New York, but high enough that the paparazzi won’t be able to hound us. I would hope.

When we get up to the penthouse, Brook gives us a tour. His gigantic bachelor pad is filled with priceless art and sharp-edged furniture in muted colors of gray and beige. Even the satin and velvet throw pillows are sleek and puffed up, resembling something Jeff Koons would’ve crafted out of stainless steel.

“Can I use your bedroom to change?” I ask Brook after the others file out on the deck.

“You didn’t put on your bathing suit back at the museum?”

“I didn’t have time,” I say.

“I would rather—You know what, go ahead.” He tips his head toward his bedroom. “You can even leave your stuff in there.”

“Thanks,” I say, clutching my little fabric bag as I walk quickly down the hallway. Once inside, I lock the door and race to his nightstand where I spotted an electronic tablet earlier.

I press on the screen that flares to life without prompting me for a code. With shaky fingers, I pull up an Internet page, log in to my account, and write an email.

Josh—

The quilt is here…was here. It’s the one I auctioned off. There was a rip in it. I think Aster did it. Can you find out why?

After pressing send, I start researching my sister’s case. A knock resounds on the door, making me jump.

“Everything okay?”

“Y-yes,” I say. “Almost ready.”

Fingers trembling, I clear the browser history, return the tablet to the nightstand, throw off my clothes, and wriggle into my bathing suit. When I open the door, I come nose-to-chest with Brook.

“That’s a nice color on you,” he says.

I can smell his breath, minty and cool on the tip of my nose. “Thanks.”

He peers behind me. For a second, I wonder if I turned off the tablet. Or maybe I put it in the wrong spot.

My heart thumps so loudly that I’m afraid it’ll give me away. I try to sidestep him, but he claps his hands on my upper arms. “I’m going back to the museum to greet Kevin.” His eyes are on me again. “Save me a swim, okay?”

“Brook? Your phone keeps—” Chase’s words die off when he turns the corner and spots us.

I bounce away from Brook and mumble something about seeing them outside. I try to walk at a normal speed even though I’m tempted to run. Not so much from Brook, but from Chase. I know he’s not a mind reader—I’m well aware they don’t exist, unlike Mom who never took a decision without consulting the bald tarot card reader on Buckeye—but still, I worry he’ll see the guilt rifling through me. I broke a show rule. I could be eliminated if anyone found out I established communication with the outside world.

Keeping my face as blank as possible, I walk past Jeb whose camera is poised in my direction, past the sliding glass doors, past Herrick and Maxine who are floating on inflatable rafts while Lincoln does laps, and straight toward the overstuffed, orange lounge chairs.

“You should come in. The water’s delicious,” Maxine says, readjusting the floppy brim of her hat.

“Maybe later,” I lie. I’m not going in the pool. I can’t.

I close my eyes against the bright heat and try to relax, but my muscles are tense and my mind is buzzing with the email I wrote Josh. I hope he replies before we’re carted back to the museum because I need answers.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Aster

“Why did you buy it?” I ask Troy.

“Have you been following me?”

“Why did you buy it?” I repeat, this time with more authority.

Troy places his hand on my half-open car window. A large gold pinkie ring reflects the orange Vacancy sign overhead. His nails are buffed and trimmed, and his fingers are long and golden. Feminine hands. That’s what they strike me as. Shouldn’t a mobster have dried blood underneath his nails and bruises on his knuckles? “As a pretty investment.”

“Redecorating your underground office, are you?”

He combs his fingers through his greasy, chin-length black hair. “My underground office?”

“Isn’t that where the mafia conducts their business?”

“The mafia?”

“Don’t play dumb. I know who you are…I know what you do.”

“Really? And who am I then?”

“Troy Mann. A wanted criminal.”

He straightens up, but keeps his hand on the window. “Where would you get that sort of idea?”

“I read your file. You’re wanted for money laundering and arms trading.”

His pupils pulse against the yellowish iris. “I have no clue what you’re talking about,” he says, but I can tell he does.

“I’m not sure why you bought the quilt, but you leave my sister out of this.”

“Your sister? I don’t even know your sister.”

“You bought the quilt from her.”

Slow…that’s what he is, because he repeats, “Your sister?”

“Just give me the quilt and I’ll pretend we never met.”

Thick fumes from my eighties Honda drift through my open window and fill the car.

His lips lift in a wide smile. “Are you trying to con me, Ivy? Because that’s not a wise idea.”

“I’m not Ivy.”

“Sure. And I’m part robot.” He chuckles and taps on the window. “Now get out of here.”

“I’m not leaving without the quilt.”

“I’m starting to lose patience. You don’t want me to lose patience, Ivy.”

“My name’s Aster.”

His hand is back on the windowsill. He’s squeezing it so hard that his knuckles have turned white. “
Go
…now,” he says, his voice low and threatening.

“Not without the quilt.”

As a deep growl leaks out of his mouth, his hand shoots inside the car and comes at my throat like a claw, cutting off my air supply. I eye the lever to bring up the window, but it’ll take too long to wind up. Keeping my gaze on his, my fingers crawl over to the stick shift. Holding down the clutch, I back up. It rips his fingers from my throat. And then I spin the wheel and ram into him. His body hits the hood and his head smashes against the windshield, which cracks from the impact. For a second, his cheek stays glued to the glass, but then the thick blood that’s oozing out of his ear and forehead makes him slide off and thump to the ground.

I yelp, my gaze darting over the two floors of motel rooms. There’s no movement and no light.

“Nobody saw you, Aster,” I whisper to myself. “Nobody.” Yet my entire body rumbles like the Honda’s crap engine. “Besides, you didn’t hit him that hard. You just stunned him. That’s all. He’s just stunned.” I grip the window’s lever and wind it up, but my palm is so slick that my hand skids off three times. I abandon the third time.

I ought to drive away, but I need the quilt, so I wait two minutes, five, ten. Still Troy doesn’t stand. The keys to his room will be in that messenger bag he was carrying. Breathing hard, I open my door, take my seatbelt off, and get out. His outstretched hand is the first thing I spot. I watch his slender fingers, expecting them to curl, but they remain flat against the asphalt. I creep closer, and closer, and closer until I can see all of him, as flat and lifeless as his hand.
Unconscious, not lifeless
, I correct myself.

The bag rests a few feet away from him. I hop over his outstretched arm and bend to grab it, but he grabs me first, squeezing my ankle and twisting it with his dainty hand. I catch myself on the dented hood and kick as hard as I can, just managing to dislodge his fingers. And then I run, faster than I’ve ever run before, and jolt into the car. Without bothering to throw my door closed, I put the car in drive. It lurches forward, then up, then down. My ears buzz like after that awful rave Ivy dragged me to a few months back.

“I killed a criminal,” I reassure myself. “A bad guy. A very bad guy. Very,
very
bad.”

I peer at the bag on the passenger seat, expecting some bomb to detonate, but it isn’t rigged. But what about a tracking device? Maybe there’s one inside. I jam my foot on the brake pedal and the edge of the steering wheel bites into my abdomen.

With shaky fingers, I pluck the bag off the seat and set it on my lap, and then I flip it open. Inside, there’s a bulky package. I take it out to search the rest of it for keys, but my fingers don’t come in contact with metal…they don’t come in contact with anything. No keycard, no phone, no wallet. I turn it over and shake it, but still nothing falls out.

The key must have been on him. My forehead throbs. I rub it, trying to think. If I don’t go back and search his body, then his death will have been for nothing. But if I go back, and someone sees me—No, I can’t go back. I spot a trashcan. I open the car door and fling the bag into the bin. I’m about to do the same with the package, but curiosity gets the better of me and I tear it open. I blink because what I see can’t be real…what I see is what my mind wants to see.

Ivy’s quilt.

I touch it. It feels real. I pull it out and unfold it. Gold and satin glimmers, and this fabric covered in tiny mirrored-beads speckles the drab gray interior of the Honda with tinsels. I gather it in my arms and hug it to me as though it were my own sister. She’s going to be so thankful, so
so
thankful.

Something crunches underneath my fingers. I frown and pull the quilt back. I press down on the spot and again it crackles. I prod other parts of the quilt, but there is no noise. I go back to the spot and turn on the car light to inspect it. Something catches my eye along the seam—on about three inches, the thread is of a different color. I tug on it with my sharp pinky nail until it breaks, then carefully, I pull apart the two sides of the quilt and extricate a folded piece of wax paper.

Why in the world would Ivy place a sheet of—I don’t finish my thought when I glimpse what’s inside. I fold it up and stuff it back in. And then I just breathe. The empty street beyond goes in and out of focus.

I cough from sucking in too much air. I pick up the torn package and read the mailing address. It’s going to New York.

“New York?”

“Yes,” I say, looking at the passenger seat. It’s empty. I’m talking to myself. I rub my corded neck, trying to ease my nerves.

Headlights appear from behind, blinding and bright. I yank out the wax paper and stick it in my bra just in case it’s the cops, but the car is a black pickup. It sidles in next to mine.

The automated window slides down. “Having car trouble, miss?”

“Uh…no. Everything’s fine.”

“Redd?”

I start. I’m about to ask him how he knows my last name when he stares at my windshield, at the bloodied crack. He must be referring to the blood.

“Your ride looks pretty banged up.” He’s wearing a green cap with a pine tree and a deer on it.

“I hit a deer.”

“Not many of those in Kokomo.”

“I hit it back in Vermont.”

He eyes me, then the windshield. “I got a guy who could fix that for you cheap.”

“I was going to get rid of the car. It stalls half the time.”

“He sells some too.”

“I’m good. Thanks. My dad’s waiting up for me. I should get home.”

“I suppose you should.”

I grip the stick shift. “You mind backing up a little?” I ask.

“You reported the deer to the police?”

My fingers tighten around the knob. “Yeah. Can you please move?”

He doesn’t. Cold sweat gathers on the nape of my neck, gluing my springy curls to my skin. A hand lifts them, squeezes my shoulder blades. I jump and shiver. It’s just my imagination. The guy’s still in his truck, still next to me.

“What’s up with the blanket?”

“My heater’s broken,” I lie.

“It’s August.”

“Well, I’m cold.”

I’m about to push my car up onto the sidewalk to maneuver out of the tight spot when he taps the brim of his cap like an army salute and pulls his truck back. A swirly tattoo of barbed wire decorates his entire forearm.

The Honda springs into action so fast, it sputters and stalls. I glance into my rearview mirror. The pickup is still behind me. Praying that the guy won’t follow me, I step on the clutch, then on the gas, and then I drive in the wrong direction until I’m sure I’ve lost him.