The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) (24 page)

“Do you remember what happened to you?” she asks, fastening a blood pressure monitor around my bicep.

I blink. Like feathers, fragmented memories drift into my mind.
Chacha. The basin of boiling water. The walk-in freezer. The cold.
Slowly, I nod.

“Being disoriented is a normal symptom. It’s also a side effect of shock. But you’ll be pleased to know your vitals are back to normal and your temperature’s up. You’re good as new.”

She begins peeling the foil off my body. My skin is slick with perspiration, yet I don’t feel particularly warm. I shiver when the air hits the sweat. The nurse catches my tremor, stops what she’s doing, opens a cabinet, and extricates a folded towel. She lays it on top of me, and then proceeds to remove the rest of the foil.

“I heard talk it wasn’t an accident,” she says, peering at my face through a pair of canary-yellow bifocals.

I don’t answer. I just stare at her boy-cut hair as it swishes around her face.

“You missed a good show today.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“The Masterpiecers,” she says, balling the foil and chucking it into the bin at the foot of the exam table. “It’s my guilty pleasure, but don’t tell anyone, okay?”

The pillow is soft and takes the shape of my cheek. “I won’t,” I whisper. But I don’t want to talk about Ivy because, even though she didn’t lock me up in the freezer, she told the cops I was crazy.

“You okay, hun?”

“Yeah,” I croak, even though I’m not okay.

“Your sister’s real talented.”

Don’t talk about her,
I scream inside my head.

Unfortunately, she forges on. “I wish I could’ve bought something of hers before she got on the show, but it was already too expensive then. I got a stack of bills this high.” She holds her palms apart as though there was an invisible accordion in between them. “And a mortgage and—”

I’m startled she knows the price of my sister’s quilts.

“What?” She glances at the door. When she sees no movement behind the frosted glass, she peers back down at me. “Are you okay?”

I’m about to nod, but I find myself asking instead, “How do you know how much her quilts are worth?”

“Oh. Harry told me…I mean Commander Collins. He has one.”

My brain catapults the picture on his desk to the forefront of my mind. That was what I’d realized when I was scouring Chacha’s soup pot! His daughter was posing in front of one of Ivy’s quilts. “The warden owns one of my sister’s quilts.”

It’s not a question, yet the nurse treats it as such. “Yes. And it’s
gor
-geous.”

She smiles because she attributes my astonishment to sibling pride or awe when in fact, it stems from confusion. Did he buy it, or did she bribe him with it?

The nurse tucks me under the towel. “You can be really proud of your sister.”

I don’t answer.

“You want to watch some reruns of today’s show on my laptop?”

“Do I have time?”

“Time? Hun, you’re not going back to your cell tonight, and it’s only seven thirty. Before they announce the winners, they’ll show a recap of the day’s highlights. I missed a bit when you came in.” Since I’m not very enthusiastic, she adds, “But if you’re too tired, I’ll just listen to it on my headphones and let you rest.”

“No. I want to see it.”

“Great. Here, let me raise the backrest up a notch.” She adjusts it so that I’m propped up. Then she sits on her wheelie chair, places her computer on her lap, and drags herself back over to my cot. She logs in to the TV network’s website and pulls up the first and most popular tab:
The Masterpiecers
.

Her screen goes momentarily dark and then the image of a bright shore fills the blackness. How ironic that while I was freezing, Ivy was on a warm beach. The commentators launch into vivid descriptions of the day’s test, from Lincoln’s intricate drawing, to Chase’s sand city, to Kevin’s wild grass rope, to Ivy’s magnificent stick spider web, to Herrick’s transitory seashell wall. They’re making prognostics as to who will get eliminated tonight. After seeing my sister’s piece, I’m a hundred percent sure it won’t be her. Nevertheless, I’m not enthusiastic because her talent has brought me nothing but pain.

As the recaps stop and the show goes live, I look for my sister. I find her sandwiched between Lincoln and Herrick, dressed in a flowy, Grecian gown that billows around her ankles. All the competitors are in white tonight. They’re standing a few feet away from a massive bonfire like warlocks and witches about to leap into the pyre to burn for their sins. The flames dance across their tense faces. I search my sister’s expression for emotion and spot nervousness. I wonder if she knows what happened to me today.

“I don’t see how she would,” the nurse tells me, her gaze taped to the screen.

“What?”

She swings her gaze toward me. “You asked if she knew what happened to you today.”

I said it out loud.
Wow
, my brain must not have thawed out completely. “Right.”

The video montage people have divided the screen into six equal parts. Five of them show the artworks, and the last show Dominic raising the microphone to his lips to announce the loser.

“This is my least favorite part of the show,” he begins by saying. “Especially now that we—Josephine, Brook, and I—have discovered how talented you all are. Please remember that disqualification doesn’t mean you lack talent or intelligence. Disqualification just means you didn’t score well on this particular test.”

He studies them, offering each a pearly smile. But then his smile fades as his gaze settles on one particular contestant. I can’t tell if he’s looking at Ivy or Herrick.

“Herrick Hawk, your piece was inspired, but not thought out enough. One puff of wind, and it buckled. Even though some art is as transient as a butterfly, at the Masterpiecers, we believe in creating something perennial.” Dominic walks toward him and puts his hand on the twenty-three-year-old’s shoulder. “We will miss you deeply. And on behalf of everyone here on the show, I wish you the best of luck with all of your future endeavors.”

As Herrick’s face decomposes, the image switches to flashbacks of his journey on the show: snippets of interviews and slow motion highlights of Herrick competing, laced with pretty music. The nurse sniffs next to me, lifting her glasses to blot the tears from her eyes. I don’t feel particularly sad for him. It’s just a stupid show. He’s not going to rot away in a cell for having rid the Earth of a bad person.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Ivy

“I really didn’t think I’d be sticking around after my sand castle exploit,” Chase tells me as we are led to the banquet underneath the white big top.

I laugh because I’m in a good mood. Not only am I still on the show, but my work has been touted as the most magnificent piece of the day. I felt it would be, but a gut feeling isn’t worth as much as spoken compliments. I spy Herrick in my peripheral vision. His cheeks are blotchy red and his nose is running, and his big hair, which is usually so perfectly slick, is standing on end. He’s a mess. If I lose, I won’t make such a miserable display of myself in front of the cameras. I’ll keep it together.

“By the way, Chase, thank you for last night.”

“Last night?” Brook says, appearing beside us. “What happened last night?” Brook eyes his brother, then me, but thankfully doesn’t insinuate anything.

“Kevin was out late,” I tell him. “And since we don’t have locks on our tents—”

“You have nothing to worry about,” Chase says.

I frown. “Have you seen the size of him? Plus he hates my guts. Brook, would it be possible to get an extra camera to monitor our hallway?”

“I’ll see what I can do. Anyway, congratulations, you two.”

“It’s Ivy you should congratulate. My work was pretty pathetic,” Chase says.

“Maybe, but you’re still here,” he says.

The vein in Chase’s temple throbs. I don’t think he wanted Brook to validate his comment, I’m pretty sure he wanted him to tell him how crafty it was. Brook’s gaze is focused on me, so he’s oblivious to his brother’s soured mood.

“I’m going to grab something to drink,” Chase mutters. “You want anything, Ivy?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Nothing alcoholic,” Brook says with a grin. “At least not for the next”—he checks his expensive wristwatch—“three hours and forty seven minutes.”

Chase doesn’t return his smile. He just leaves.

“What happens in three hours and forty seven minutes?” I ask.

“He’s going to be legal.”

“Oh, right.” I glance at Chase. The white linen shirt is stretched tight across his shoulder blades and his dark copper hair gleams in the firelight. “He doesn’t seem very excited about it.”

“Oh, he will be. I’ve organized fireworks and s’mores and a champagne fountain.”

I don’t think a big celebration will thrill Chase.

“I wanted to tell you something.” Brook’s voice has dropped so much that I think he’s going to bring up the elevator conversation again.

“Kevin’s lawyer is here.”

“Really?” I squeak.

“He scored an invite without us knowing. Jeb was reviewing the raw footage earlier and recognized him. Anyway, I’ve told Dominic, who’s asked him to leave, but he says he didn’t come here as Kevin’s lawyer, but as Madame Babanina’s guest.”

“Madame who?”

“Madame Babanina. One of the show’s biggest sponsors. Cleaned her husband out in a divorce, and then donated half his money to the school to annoy him. Anyway, Kevin’s lawyer was her lawyer and—”

“Can you point him out?” I ask.

Brook turns and inspects the beach. After a few seconds, he tips his chin toward a man sitting to the right of a woman sporting tight black lace and exaggeratedly curved bangs—Madame Babanina. “If he talks to you, you come straight to me, okay?”

I nod.

“On another note…”

“Yes?”

“Would you consider selling me your web?”

“You want to buy my web?”

“Yes. I’d like to buy it.”

“Can you?”

“I have money.” He gives me a big smile.

“No, I mean, doesn’t that break some show rule?”

“There’s no rule against purchasing art from an artist. Didn’t you see the Zara Mach accordion over my bed?”

My heart’s vaulting against the walls of my chest at being called an artist by a real connoisseur. I take a deep breath and try to think of something to say besides yelling,
hell,
yes
. “I wasn’t going to sell it…” My voice shakes. I suddenly wish Chase were here. He’d get me a hell of a price.

“Okay, but now that I’m offering, how much would you find fair?”

I pretend to think about it. When enough time has passed, I say, “Thirty thousand.”

“That’s reasonable,” he says.

Reasonable?
It’s outrageous! I made the piece out of twigs and grass. I keep my cool and fold my arms. “Cash.”

“No. I need to write you a check. For tax and insurance reasons.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to get acquainted with the IRS.”

I run through mental calculations of how much I’ll be left with.

“Don’t worry, you’re still going to make a bunch of money, Ivy.”

He’s right, but it probably won’t be enough to cover the amount of Aster’s bail now that she’s being charged with first-degree murder. If she can even make bail. I shiver and look down at my bare feet. They replaced the Band-Aid with a sturdier one, so that I can go into the sea, but the inky darkness doesn’t inspire me.

“So do we have a deal?” he asks.

I crane my neck to look at Brook. “Yes.”

He extends his hand. I lift mine and feed my fingers around his.

“What are we shaking hands to?” the photographer asks.

I yank my hand away.

“I’ve just bought my first Ivy Redd piece,” Brook says with a smile.

Patrick’s brown eyes grow rounder. He snaps a picture of my face, and then finally lowers his camera. “The web?”

“The Web,” Brook says, grinning. He glances at me, the smile growing on his lips. “Shall we call it that?”

“Sure.”

I spot Kevin a few feet away, hard to miss considering how sunburnt his large forehead has become. He’s talking with his lawyer and another man sporting a wool suit and a cherry-red tie. Something about him strikes me as familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen him before, but where?

“I might not be the first owner of a Redd original, but I’m certainly the luckiest because I saw it come to life under my very own eyes. How many collectors can claim that?” Brook is telling the photographer. Suddenly, his hand closes over my arm. “Excuse us, Patrick. I have someone I’d like to introduce to my contestant.” We walk straight toward Kevin and the two men. “Ivy, I’d like you to meet Dean Kane, my dear friend and the lawyer who will be defending your sister.”

Frowning, I shake hands with the man with the bright tie. And then it hits me where I saw him. After the performance art test.

“And this is Mister Kelley,” Brook says, gesturing to Kevin’s lawyer.

I shake his hand too, even though I really don’t want to.

“I should get back to Madame Babanina. She doesn’t like to be left alone,” he says. “Mister Martin, I am deeply sor—”

Kevin, whose chin is tucked into his neck, doesn’t wait for him to finish his sentence before traipsing away.

“Brook, may I speak to Ivy privately? I’d like to discuss her sister’s case,” Dean says.

“Sure, but don’t bore her with too many details.”

He nods and we set out along the beach, toward the obscurity beyond the big top.

Once we cross over into the darkness, I ask, “What were you talking about with Kevin and his lawyer?”

“His press release. I told him to cancel it.”

“Did he agree?”

“He did.”

“Really?”

Dean nods.

“How? Why?”

“I have proof that your sister didn’t doctor those photos.”

“Who did, then?”

“I can’t disclose that information.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

He shakes his head. “Sorry, Ivy, but you’ll find out if Kevin decides to go public with it. Now, about your sister’s case. I’m unclear about something. How well did
you
know Troy Mann?”