The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) (30 page)

When I hear a click, I whisper, “Josh?” but it goes straight to voicemail. I’m tempted to empty my heart, tell him that I think Aster didn’t kill Troy for my quilt, that I think she killed him for what was inside, but I don’t want there to be yet another trace of my suspicion.

Especially if I’m wrong.

Chapter Forty-One

Aster

I was sick all night. When I spot Sofia scarfing down her bowl of porridge the next morning, I deduce it’s not salmonella poisoning.

“Hi,” Gill says, a smile stretching from one side of her face to the other. All of her teeth point in different directions like those strings of square, paper lanterns people loop around their porches in the summer.

She swoops down to plant a kiss on my cheek, but I hold her back. “I’m sick. I don’t want to infect you.”

Grin still intact, she says, “I’m probably already infected.” She tries to peck my face again when I slap my hand over my mouth and jump off the bench to run toward the bin. I just make it.

Cool fingers stroke my neck, gather my dreads.
God,
she’s everywhere
. What have I gotten myself into?

“Sergeant Driscoll, can I go to the infirmary? I’m not feeling too well.”

“Morning sickness?” he asks. His potbelly shakes with a chuckle while my cheeks flame.

“I’ll walk her over. To spare you an uncomfortable run-in with Nurse Celia,” Gill says, repaying his snarky comment.

The laughter dries in his throat. “
Yobwoc
,” he yells. “Get your ass over here.”

“Inmate Redd needs some medical attention,” he says, glaring at Gill. “Walk her to the infirmary.”

He nods. Gill hooks her arm through mine and begins to follow him, but Driscoll stops her. “Swanson, you’re needed in the laundry room. Got some linens to press.”

Gill sucks in a breath and releases my arm. “Asshole,” she murmurs. “I’ll try to stop by later, okay?”

I nod, and the movement angers my throbbing head. I hold on to the walls as I trail Officer Landry. He turns around a few times, and although he seems concerned, he doesn’t offer me support. He’s probably worried that touching an inmate will look bad. Or that I’ll give him what I have.

The hallway floor shifts like in a funhouse. The ground goes forward and back and side to side. I trip at some point and one of my flip-flops flies off, but I catch myself before I hit the floor. Landry stops, casts another worried glance my way, but still doesn’t help. My fingers tremble as they slip the flip-flop back on. My feet are white and as stiff as when Chacha extracted me from the freezer. The world spins again and suddenly I’m flat on my back and Officer Landry is upside down. Nurse Celia’s face pops into my line of sight. I think I hear her call out my name but I’m not sure.

She hoists me up with the help of Landry, and together, they carry me to the cot in her office. Drawers slam, metal clangs, wheels spin. A sharp pain explodes in my wrist. I peer down and see she’s stuck a catheter inside my vein and is hooking it up to an IV bag.

“When was the last time you ate something, Aster?” she asks. It sounds like she’s at the bottom of a well.

“Last night.”

“I mean really ate?” she repeats. “Like a proper meal.”

“The burger,” I croak.

“That was two days ago! Landry, get me a bottle of Coke.”

While he’s gone, she takes my blood pressure, inspects my eyes with a small flashlight, and prods my abdomen.

“I’m going to keep you a few hours. You’re completely dehydrated.”

“Sure,” I say, as my head lolls to the side and my lids slam shut like magnets. “Nowhere else to go.”

***

When I wake up, the nausea has receded and my vein, the one with the catheter in it, is cold from the drip. Slowly, I drum my fingers and shift my legs. The paper crinkles under me, alerting Nurse Celia of my wakefulness.

She simultaneously prods my free wrist for a pulse and keeps an eye on her watch. “That’s a better rhythm,” she says, and proceeds to remove the needle taped to my opposite arm. The IV bag hangs limply on a pole, near empty. “Can you sit up?”

I nod and do as I’m asked.

“I’ve requested they add two granola bars to your diet every day. Please eat them.” She returns to her desk and grabs a glass filled with brown liquid. “Now, drink this. It’ll get your blood sugar zinging.”

I take a sip. When I realize it’s Coke—even though it’s room temperature and most of the bubbles have fizzed out—I gulp it down. “What time is it?”

“It’s ten.”

“My sister’s show must be starting.”

The nurse’s eyes light up. “Want to watch it?”

“Yes,” I say, because I need to see my sister’s face. I need to know if she’s truly angry with me. “But I can go to the dayroom if you’ve got other patients to see.”

“No other patients. Just you.” Her door is already shut, but she moves toward it to test the handle. “Don’t want to be disturbed.”

More like caught.

Keeping her laptop on the desk, she turns it toward the exam table. It’s already broadcasting the show. She wheels over her chair and plops down. Her gaze glued to the monitor, she says, “I called Dean”—a faint linear flush extends from the bridge of her nose to her hairline—“to tell him that you fainted, but that you were okay now.”

I doubt he’d care much.

Dominic’s on the screen, microphone in hand. He’s not smiling today. “Ladies and gentlemen, after a strange few days, and after hours of discussions, Josephine, Brook, and I feel we cannot disappoint neither our faithful audience, nor can we rob our remaining contestants of the chance of a lifetime. We offer our deepest condolences to Mrs. Martin and Kevin’s parents and siblings, and hope that the magnificent rope Kevin wove on his last day has reached them. Also, I wish to take a moment to clear up certain assumptions that seem to have sprouted since my contestants’ run-in with the press yesterday on the Brooklyn Bridge. Miss Ivy Redd had nothing to do with Mister Martin’s death. Miss Lincoln Vega would like to say a few words to that effect.”

The camera perches on Lincoln’s face. She is sitting behind Dominic, legs folded and back rigid. When he approaches her with the microphone, her green gaze turns to Ivy whose face is impassible.

“Ivy, I regret the terrible confusion my words created. I didn’t mean you any harm,” she says.

Her apology sounds rehearsed.

My sister nods and her straightened hair ripples. I wonder if she’s gotten highlights. It’s more golden than I remember. Perhaps it’s because she’s tanned so her eyes and hair look paler. I touch my own hair, coarse with dreads that, according to Gill, are maturing nicely. Ivy will hate them and tell me they’re ugly and I’ll get them raked out.

“Now, for today’s test. We are going to attach a small camera and recording device to our contestants’ chests and give them a list. That list will be for their eyes only and will contain the instructions of today’s tournament. And that is all I will reveal to you, dear audience.” He shoots the crowd a white smile. “No camera crew will follow them. The only footage you will be privy to will be the one that will be recorded by their personal devices. However, it will only be broadcasted once they’ve safely returned to the museum. We do have to keep you guessing.” His smile stretches all the way to his silver sideburns.

“What?” Nurse Celia’s voice is so strident that I jump. “They’re horrible! They can’t do that to us!”

“Lincoln, Ivy, Chase,” Dominic continues, “are you ready?”

Lincoln’s knee shakes; she’s the only one who seems anxious.

“Brook, you may hand them their instructions,” Dominic says.

The camera shifts over to him. He stands, walks to the contenders, and distributes three scrolls, each tied with a shimmery bow. They tug off the binding and unroll the thick, crackling paper.

My sister’s knuckles turn white as she reads. Without even realizing it, I’ve jumped off the exam table and approached the computer. Ivy’s expression quickly turns cool again, but the surprise and—
distress?
—are still there, etched deep into the blueness of her irises. To the world, she may seem confident, but I know she’s frightened.

Chapter Forty-Two

Ivy

I read over the paper again. And again. The instructions are succinct and easy, but the task…God, the task sucks! I try to take a calming breath, but the air in the Temple room is stale and doesn’t do crap to calm down my riled nerves. And Dominic’s beaming teeth make me want to slap him. If he’s so excited, why doesn’t he do it himself? What he’s asking of us is insane, impossible…illegal!

I go over the list one more time.

1. Corinne Bally’s wooden
Babylonian Idol
at the Guggenheim Museum.

2. Otto Milo’s
Painted Tissues
installation at the Museum of Modern Art.

3. Zara Mach’s
Fuzzy Castanets
at Christie’s Auction House.

4. Annabelle Wyatt’s lithograph,
Life Dream,
at the Whitney Museum of American Art.

5. Sue Ling’s turquoise and bone,
Tusk
Goddess,
at the Rubin Museum of Art.

6. Christos Natter’s
Miniature Barrel Chair
at the Wilde Gallery of Modern Art.

“Contestants, you must choose a number and say it out loud. Just the number. Obviously, don’t choose the same one.” Dominic guffaws, which elicits chuckles from the audience.

I swallow as Chase rolls up his paper and says, without hesitation, “Three.”

I stare at the list. Of course…
Christie’s
. He must know the auction house inside and out, having worked there. He probably still has an employee key card. Just the thought slices the threads of hope I’m clinging to as I dangle over the bottomless precipice Dominic has excavated beneath me.

“Six,” Lincoln says. Her voice is steady even though she’s bouncing her knee.

I go over the remaining four objects. They’ve left me with only museums. There’s so much security in a museum I’m going to fail.

“Ivy? Have you made your choice?”

My lips have gone dry. I swipe my tongue over them and blink into the camera.
Shit, shit, shit
.

“Ivy?”

“Two,” I say, just like I could have said any other number.

“Have you memorized your choices?”

My gaze flits over the words again.
Milo, painted tissues, Museum of Modern Art
. I’m the last to nod.

“Okay. You may leave to get outfitted with your recording devices and
other
equipment.” Dominic winks, as gleeful as a kid on a merry-freaking-go-round. “Good luck.”

Even though I’ve never believed in luck, today I want to. I also want to bang my head against one of the Met’s wainscoted walls and shout, but I iron out my composure. As I stand up to leave under the audience’s applause, I wave and flash a fake smile. Quietly, we take the elevator back up to our quarters. Neither Lincoln nor Chase speaks to me—or to each other for that matter. Everyone is focused on the task at hand.

As someone from the film crew hooks the audiovisual recording devices into our clothes, our assistants hand us nondescript black backpacks.

Milo, tissues, MoMA
.

“How are we getting there?” Lincoln asks her assistant.

“On motorbikes. We have three waiting for you downstairs.”

“I’ve never driven one,” I say.

Cara smiles. “Good thing you won’t have to, then,” she says, finger-combing her peroxide-blonde hair. “Riders have been assigned to each one of you. They know where to take you so don’t speak your locations.” She taps the miniature gadget peeping through the ruffles of my wisteria-colored shirt.

“Why not cars?” Lincoln asks.

“So you can go faster…that’s what I heard at least,” Cara continues, her eyes drifting over our faces.

“They’re all set. Run the test!” the person from the film crew yells.

“Ivy’s a go. Chase is a go too. Got audio for Lincoln, but not visual. Bring her over.”

“Turning off all mics!” someone else shouts as Lincoln is led over to the tech person.

The assistants disperse, leaving me to stand awkwardly next to Chase. Even though my mic is off, I cover it with my palm and drop my voice to a whisper, “Can’t the show get in trouble?”

Chase doesn’t bother covering up his device. “They have insurance. Plus it’s all former students of theirs.”

“Yeah, but still…”

“Just don’t blow your nose in the tissues,” he says. His lips don’t quiver, yet there’s a tangible hint of humor in his voice.

“Funny,” I mutter. After a beat, I add, “This is going to be so easy for you, isn’t it? You’ll just strut in there with your keycard and—”

“Easy?” he says. “Don’t delude yourself, Ivy. It’s not going to be easy…for any of us.”

“Why did you choose Christie’s then?”

“Because it’s small, so I’m not going to be hounded by hundreds of curious people like in a museum. I’m not a big fan of crowds.” He stares down at me, his gaze devoid of yesterday’s animosity. If anything he looks drained, even underneath the thin coat of foundation they’ve brushed over his skin. “How’s your sister?”

“Aster?” I ask.

“Do you have another sister?”

I shake my head dumbly.

“My parents told me yesterday that she’d been hurt in prison.”

“I haven’t heard from her. No communication, remember?”

“Right.” He studies me. “You must miss her.”

I feel freer without her, but I can’t admit that to anyone. I’d sound cruel. As Lincoln and the two other assistants walk back toward us, I say, “Yeah.”

Cara readjusts my device, tests it again, and then leads us down to the underground parking entrance where three gleaming motorbikes are waiting for us. The drivers hand us bulky black helmets, which we strap on.

“Ready?” mine asks, his question muffled by his impressive handlebar mustache.

I nod and hop on, black backpack in place. And then we’re off, and warm air blows into my face and blends into my hair and makes my shirt frills flutter and tickle my collarbone. I close my eyes, not from fear but from delight. The ride is exactly what I need, albeit too short.