The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) (28 page)

By the time we park next to an overhanging walkway that rises above the murky waters of the East River, I feel so sullen that I want to yell and cry. I do neither. I get out and slam my door. Danny tails us, conspicuous in his black suit and aviators. If anything, he makes people gawk and whisper.

When we’re halfway across the bridge, he says, “We should head back to the car. You’ve been made.”

Lincoln flaps her hand in the air. “Relax.”

“Mister Bacci made it clear to keep you away from crowds.”

“I’m not agoraphobic.” Lincoln’s smiling for the raised smartphones. She even waves.

I keep my face angled down. “He’s right. We should head back.”

“Oh, stop it, you two. They’re harmless. They just want some pictures,” Lincoln says. “They love us.”

They love us so much that they close in on us, asking for autographs on their water bottles, their bags, even on an unused diaper. At first, Danny fends them off, but the crowd grows so deep that he is rendered powerless. He takes out his cell phone and calls for backup.

A large video camera pushes past the crowd, along with a woman holding a microphone. The reporters have found us. My breathing becomes shallow and my heart pounds harder. I look around like a crazed animal, trying to locate an escape hatch, but I can’t even see the bridge railing.

I feel hands stroke my back, my bottom, my chest, and my stomach. Fabric and skin brush my bare legs and arms. The stench of armpits, of un-brushed teeth, and pungent perfumes slap me. I scramble backward, taking shelter between Danny and Lincoln, using their bodies to shield my own. An arm drapes around my stiff shoulders. Lincoln’s. She’s chatting with the reporter.

“Ivy was the first to find him,” she says.

My breath hitches.

“Did you have anything to do with Mister Martin’s death, Miss Redd?” the reporter asks.

“I said she was the first on the scene. I didn’t say she killed him. Right, Ivy? You didn’t kill Kevin?” Lincoln asks sweetly.

I gape at her bright teeth as she squeezes my shoulder. And then I step away, because I finally see her for the viper she is. She wants me out of the running, and by implying I could have had a hand in Kevin’s death, she just might get her way.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Aster

“If you were to commit suicide in here, how would you do it?” I ask the women sitting at my table in the middle of our breaded chicken and mushy corn dinner.

“I’d hang myself,” Gill says.

“With what?” Chacha asks, readjusting her hairnet.

“I’d roll up my bed sheets,” Gill says. “Tie a noose.”

“Okay. And where would you attach them? It’s not like there’s a hook on the ceiling of our cells.” The woman who speaks is one of Chacha’s relatives apparently—a distant cousin. She sort of looks like her even though her eyes are much lighter, almost honey-colored, and her hair’s dyed blonde. Her name’s Gracie.

“I dunno. Maybe on the upper railing of our bunk beds. And then I’d have to keep my knees bent until my neck broke,” Gill says.

“I would use a knife,” Chacha says.

“Yeah, but you have access to knives. That’s too easy,” Gill says.

“Then I’d drink a cleaning product. A toxic one.”

“What about you?” I ask the translucent-skinned girl sitting alone a few spaces down. She’s been listening to our conversation. I can tell by the way her clear eyes keep darting our way.

She sits up straighter. “I’d cut my wrists with a shiv.”

“A shiv? What’s that?” I ask.

“Homemade blade, dumb-dumb,” Chacha says.

“You can make it out of a toothbrush,” Gracie adds. “I even heard of a prisoner making a shiv in papier-mâché out of a toilet paper roll.”

“How would
you
do it, Gracie?” I ask her, pushing the corn kernels around with my fork. Chacha looks at my plate, so I scoop some up and shovel them inside my mouth.

Gracie spins a small container of creamer between her index and middle fingers. “I’d light this baby up. It becomes a flamethrower.” She drops her voice. “But don’t tell anyone or we’ll be forced to drink our coffees black.” She sets it back down and fixes me with her yellow eyes. “How ’bout you? How would you do it, Aster?”

“I think I’d just lock myself in the freezer again. At least you pass out before you die.”

Chacha wrinkles her wide nose. “You’re morbid.”

“Why are we talking about suicide?” Gill asks, her red dreads swinging past her shoulder blades. “You aren’t planning on killing yourself now, are you?”

“No,” I say, even though the thought crossed my mind after Dean left. I spear a piece of soggy, breaded chicken and eat it.

Gill’s brown eyes stay narrowed; she doesn’t believe me. Suddenly another tray slides in next to mine. It’s Translucent-girl. I wasn’t sure what part of my question was an invitation for her to sit closer.

“Was that what happened yesterday? You tried to off yourself?” the girl asks. She smells like water, mineral and tinny.

“Yesterday was an accident,” I say.

Chacha leans over the table to see past me. “What you in for, Sofia?”

“I killed my professor,” Sofia says. “He gave me bad grades. He would’ve ruined my future.”

Gracie snorts. “And killing him didn’t fuck it up?”

Sofia shrugs. “At least I was in control of my fate.”

“Ever killed anyone else?” Gill asks.

“No, but I did kill an animal once. My grandma’s parakeet. I plucked it, hoping it would shut up. It just screeched louder, so I had to snap its neck.” She forks another big bite of chicken into her mouth.

“Ouch,” Chacha says. She scoots back, probably to put some space between herself and the pallid nutcase next to me.

“If I hadn’t killed him, someone else would’ve. The man had it coming,” Sofia says.

“How did you kill him?” I find myself asking.

“Followed one of his recipes to make acid, and then splashed it all over his body. Worked really well.”

“You’re real fucked up.” Chacha readjusts her hairnet and then swings her bony bowlegs off the bench. “I need to get back to the kitchen. Gracie, you coming?”

Her cousin stands and follows her out. No longer under the cook’s scrutiny, I push my tray away.

“Can I have the rest?” Sofia asks. “I love chicken.”

I nod.

“Parakeet tastes a little the same.”

“You ate the fucking bird?” Gill asks.

“I wasn’t going to let it rot.”

“Did you eat your teacher too?” Gill asks.

“That’s sick. I’m not some cannibal. Yuck.” After sticking my chicken on her plate, she asks, “Have
you
ever eaten human flesh?”

“Hell no,” Gill and I say at the same time.

“Did you hear about your sister, Aster?” Sofia asks out of the blue.

“Hear about what?”

“That she might be connected to Kevin’s death.”

Every muscle in my body coils. “She had nothing to do with it.”

“Apparently she was in the water, next to his body and—”

“What?” I say.

“Apparently she was in—”

“I heard you!” I’ve raised my voice. “A lot of people were in the water.”

“It’s Lincoln who suggested it. She said your sister was trashed last night. She could’ve lost control—”

“Ivy doesn’t lose control.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“But—”

Gill wraps her hands around her freckled elbows. “Drop it, Sofia.”

Sofia’s talc-pink lips open, but close immediately. She scrapes the remainder of my plate onto hers, and then moves back to her original seat. I get another strong whiff of her boggy scent.

Neither Gill nor I say anything for a while. After several long minutes of me staring daggers at the cup of green Jell-O on my tray, Gill speaks up, “Why were you asking about suicide?”

“It was just a topic of conversation.”

“My ass. You’re not the sort of person who comes up with
just a topic
of conversation. Everything you say and do, you think about…a lot.”

I hoist up my shoulders, then let them slump. “Maybe I’ve been feeling down.”

“Well let’s bring you back up then,” she says. “What makes you happy?”

“Popcorn and a movie.”

Gill jumps off the bench. “Consider it done.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I hope you’re not too picky about the movie,” she says. “We’ll have to see what’s on cable.”

“I’ll watch anything.”

“Good.”

She walks over to Officer Landry and, after a brief conversation, she’s granted access to the kitchen.

A movie and popcorn sound surreal.

“She your girlfriend?” Sofia asks mid-bite.

“She’s my friend.”

“You sure she’s clear on that?”

“I’m sure.”

“Can I have your Jell-O?”

“You can have my Jell-O.” I slide it over so she doesn’t come near me again.

“Thanks.” As I make to get up, she adds, “Another good way to get killed is messing with the wrong person.” She tips her head toward Cheyenne. “But it could backfire. You could become that person’s bitch, although I don’t think she swings that way.” After a spoonful of the wobbly green stuff, she adds, “She’s probably your best bet. That is, if you’re serious about leaving the DOC in a body bag.”

“I’m not suicidal.”

“I thought you were down.”

“Eavesdrop much,” I grumble.

“I don’t eavesdrop. I’m just aware. Some friendly advice: no one can hurt you if you’re aware ’cause you can figure their next move before they make it. I was a grandmaster when I was a kid.”

“A what?”

“A professional chess player.” She winks at me, her see-through eyelashes grazing her diaphanous cheek.

I’ve never seen anything coming. In the past, it was because I was so focused on Ivy. Now, it’s because I’m so focused on my predicament. Or perhaps those are excuses. Perhaps I don’t want to see things coming. Who wants to keep their eyes on the headlights of a truck that’s barreling straight for you?

“We’re all set,” Gill says.

She’s crept up so quietly that I jump.

“Already?” I ask.

She nods and extends her hand to help me up. I pretend not to see it and rise on my own. Underneath her arm, I spot a brown bag with grease smudges that make the air smell divine. Together, we walk over to Landry, who signals the squat guard in the opposite corner, the one who always sports her hair in a thick braid.

“Kim, could you take Inmates Redd and Swanson to the dayroom and stay with them. Sergeant Driscoll granted them one hour of television.”

Kim frowns, but leads the way.

“How did you swing that?” I whisper to Gill. “Another free wax?”

She smiles. “Yup.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Anything for you.”

Her eyes sparkle like the diamond in the porcelain box. The one that’s no longer there.

Chapter Forty

Ivy

“Do not come near me!” I yell at Lincoln, grabbing fistfuls of the dove-gray sham.

After the bridge incident, Danny and two cops escorted us back to Brook’s apartment where I burrowed in his guest bedroom. I haven’t spoken a word to anyone since the revolting accusation. I’ve just lain on my side, facing the cloudless sky and wondering how I could have been so shortsighted.

“I never meant to accuse you of anything.”

“Leave me alone, Lincoln.”

She sticks one hand on her hip. “You think the world is out to get you, don’t you? Well, you’re wrong. And the only reason I mentioned you were in the water was because you were.”

“And the alcohol? My vomiting? Why did you mention that?”

“The reporter brought it up. I didn’t. Besides, it works to your advantage. If you were buzzed, then it looks less suspicious.”

“
Suspicious
? Are you hearing yourself, Lincoln? Just get out,” I growl.

I turn my gaze back to the dazzling slice of city visible through the panoramic window. The building across the street is entirely made of glass. It reflects Brook’s penthouse, down to the bodies stirring around the pool deck, setting up dinner. A hubbub erupts in the hallway.

“She’s in here,” Lincoln calls out.

“Ivy, we tried to come as quickly as possible but the negotiations with the network took longer than expected,” Dominic says. He steps around the bed. His perma-tanned skin looks a little orange and wrinkled. “I don’t like these new accusations.
And
I don’t believe them.” He shifts my feet to the side to sit. “Tell me what happened, sweetheart.” When I don’t, he looks toward the door. “Lincoln, go get ready. Your stylists are in the living room. Brook, shut the door, please.” Once it’s closed, he says, “It’s just us now. Tell me what happened.”

“Haven’t you seen the news, Mister Bacci? I was accused of murdering Kevin,” I say bluntly.

“And did you?”

I sit up so quickly that my head spins. “Of course not.”

“Then why are you so worked up?”

“Because it’s all lies.” I gather my knees against me. “Just like the doctored photos.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. When the detectives get here, just—”

“The detectives?” I yelp.

He nods. “The show’s lawyer—the one you met—she’ll be here too. You have our total support, Ivy.” He pats my knee. “You know,” he adds, “last night, on the beach, I spoke to Kevin’s lawyer. He told me about the sergeant’s wife. About what she did…I even have a copy of her letter.” He pats the breast pocket of his beige linen jacket.

“What did she do?”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

His pupils pulse.

“Did
she
doctor the photos?” I ask.

“I shouldn’t—”

“I was wrongfully accused—twice now. I think I deserve to get some answers.”

He fixes me for a long time. “Kevin was going to leave her. So she destroyed his dream of getting on our show.”

“By doctoring those photos,” I say in a shocked whisper.

Winded by this discovery, I barely react when Brook, the female lawyer with the goat face, and the two detectives file into the room. McEnvoy, without asking the ladies if they’d like a seat, sinks into the leather desk chair. Combing his fingers through his prematurely graying hair, he crosses an ankle over his knee. He’s wearing his black work boots again—in ninety-degree weather. They must stink.