I finally got Mara to crack and admit what I’d known all along.
After that, I back off for a while.
We don’t talk about what she said or what we’re going to do about it. I don’t want to risk her retreating back into familiarity, back into what feels safe to her.
What feels safe and what will actually keep you safe from harm are quite different from one another.
It’s not difficult to distract ourselves from the problem of Shaw.
Both Mara and I are continually pulled into our work so deeply that the rest of the world disappears around us.
Mara is painting a new series for the private show I’m throwing her in December.
I’m finalizing my design for Corona Heights Park.
I sketch it out first, and then I build a scale model that I’ll deliver to Marcus York.
I visit Mara in her studio to see how her latest painting is coming along.
She’s got her hair piled up on her head with several paintbrushes jammed into the bun to keep it fixed in place. Her face and arms are liberally streaked with color, her overalls so battered and stained that I can’t tell if they were originally black or dark denim. She’s got the legs rolled up mid-shin, bare feet beneath, paint on her toes as well.
She smells of linen and flaxseed oil, with a sharp edge of turpentine. For this series and the last one, Mara is using oil paints, not acrylic. The paint dries slowly over several days, so the pigment is malleable. She can stack transparent layers, one over the other, to create deep shadows or the impression of light glowing from within. She can blend shades for seamless transitions.
Her technique improves by the day.
Her previous series was mostly photorealistic. This new series blends high-detail figures with rooms and scenery that in places look solid and ultra-real, while other areas melt and fade away like the edges of a memory. It gives a soft, rotting effect, as if the whole painting is beset by decay soaking through the canvas.
This particular piece shows a young girl in a nightgown walking down a placid suburban street. The roses on the hedges are past their bloom, brown at the edges. A charred teddy bear trails from one hand. Behind her, a half dozen birds have fallen dead from the sky. Beneath her slippered feet, the grass withers away.
“What are you going to call this one?”
“I’m not sure,” Mara says, rubbing the back of her hand across her cheek. This leaves a fresh smear of pale pink along her jaw—the pink of the roses, which Mara is touching up in the lower right corner of the canvas.
“What about … The Burial?”
Mara nods slowly. “I like that.”
I’m looking at one of the fallen birds, pitifully laying on its back with wings splayed.
“What?” Mara says.
“I don’t like that orange on the robin’s breast. It’s too bright. Clashes with the roses.”
Mara squints at the robin, then at the roses, looking back and forth between them, comparing the shades.
“You might be right,” she grudgingly admits. “Here, tone it down. Make it a little more dusty.”
She holds out a paintbrush to me.
“You’re going to let me touch your robin? You almost bit my head off last time I came near your painting.”
“Well, you did pick my favorite design for Corona Heights.”
It was my favorite too. Mara inspired the design, in a sense. Hearing her enthusiasm spurred me on to build the model so I can bring it to York this afternoon, right before the deadline.
I had been debating whether I even wanted to enter. I still don’t like the idea of having to outsource the construction.
I add a little brown to the robin’s breast, dulling the orange until it almost matches the edges of the rose petals.
Mara examines my work.
“That’s better,” she agrees.
Our heads are close together, examining the canvas.
Unconsciously, Mara’s hand slips into mine. I turn my mouth into the side of her neck, kissing her at the junction of her shoulder. Her scent, laced with turpentine, makes my head spin.
“Do you want to come see the model?” I ask her.
“Of course!”
She drops her brushes in a pot of solvent to soak, wiping her hands off on a rag. My own hand is paint-smeared where she touched me. Instead of washing it, I let the streak of dusty pink dry on my skin.
Mara follows me down the hall to the studio I’ve been using on this same floor. I don’t like it as much as my private space, but sometimes it’s good to make a change. There’s something energizing about the constant bustle of people in this building—the whistle of Sonia’s kettle, Janice’s snorting laugh, and the thud of Mara’s music leaking out from under her door. The chatter of other artists meeting by the stairs.
“Isn’t Officer Hawks coming to talk to you today?” Mara asks.
“Oh fuck, I forgot about that.”
I’m debating whether I should tell Sonia to cancel it. I don’t want to waste even ten minutes talking to him. On the other hand, it would be stupid to miss the opportunity to observe the detective while he’s interrogating me.
I push open the door to my own studio, which takes up half the floor on the opposite end of the building to Mara.
Our studios are equally bright and sunlit, but in truth, Mara has the better view. Hers looks out over the park, while I’m facing the busy intersection of Clay and Steiner streets. It doesn’t matter—I’m here for the view down the hall.
Mara strides directly over to the model, not waiting for me to close the door behind us.
“It’s going to be incredible,” she breathes.
She looks down over the black glass labyrinth. The smooth, sheer walls will be glossy and reflective. The maze includes a dozen routes, but only one that will take you all the way through. The correct pathway is hidden within the walls. The openings can only be found by standing at just the right angle, or running your hands along the dark glass to feel where it breaks.
“I hope they choose your design,” she says. “I want to see this built.”
“So do I,” I admit.
Mara looks up into my face, her eyes bright with excitement.
“They will. They’ll choose you.”
I could probably strong-arm York into doing it, but I won’t. My art is the one area where I don’t manipulate. My work will live or die on its own merit.
My phone buzzes in my pocket with a text from Sonia:
The cop is here.
He’s early—even more annoying than being late.
I stuff the phone back in my pocket.
“I’ve got to go talk to Hawks,” I say.
“Should I come?” Mara asks, her expression strained.
“No need, I’ll handle it. Keep working.”
Officer Hawks waits downstairs, next to Janice’s desk. He’s not the lead detective on the case—that’s an older officer named Potts. But according to my sources, the SFPD has egg on their face from all the young female bodies stacking up on their beaches. There’s a good chance Potts is about to get the boot and Hawks will be promoted. A fact of which he is probably well aware.
That’s why he’s here at my studio, digging down on every possible lead.
I pause at the base of the stairs, examining him before I step into view.
When he interviewed Mara, he wore the standard navy uniform with his gold badge pinned upon his breast.
Today he’s dressed in plain clothes—button-up shirt, slacks, and a sport coat. That could mean he’s off-duty. Or only trying to put me at ease—trying to make me think this meeting is a formality, not an interview.
In the plain tan jacket and Buddy Holly glasses, he looks a bit like a professor. Only the haircut gives him away—too fresh, too short, and too presidential. Our boy Hawks is ambitious. That’s the haircut of someone who wants his promotion badly.
He was polite to Mara when he interviewed her. Which means I don’t have to hunt him down off-hours. At least, not yet.
I step out into the lobby, striding toward him.
“Officer Hawks.”
“Mr. Blackwell.”
He holds out his hand to shake.
Sometimes I don’t shake hands, sometimes I do. It depends on what response I want to elicit.
In this case, I take the proffered hand. Hawk’s shake is firm, right on the edge of aggressive. He gives me a sharp look through the clear lenses of his glasses.
I keep my expression calm and relaxed. I already showed Hawks my teeth when he had Mara locked in an interrogation room. Today, I’m all politeness.
“We can speak in here,” I say, leading him into a conference room on the ground floor. I have no intention of allowing Hawks any deeper into the building.
“Is Mara here, too?” Hawks inquires pleasantly.
“She has a studio on the fourth floor.”
That’s not exactly an answer, something Hawks notes as well, his eyes flicking fractionally toward the ceiling before settling on my face again.
“I heard she’s living with you now.”
“That’s right.”
“How long have you two been dating?”
“It’s hard to put a timeframe on these things. You know how intangible a relationship can be. The art world is small. We’ve been in the same circle for some time, orbiting one another.”
I’m evasive on purpose. I say nothing that can be contradicted or disproven. Hawks will notice this too, but I don’t care. I want to annoy him. I want to push him to tip his cards.
I gesture to the conference room table, with its assortment of midcentury modern chairs, deliberately mismatched. Hawks takes a seat directly across from me.
He’s not taking notes, but I have no doubt he’ll remember everything I say, and probably write it down afterward.
“Did you ever meet Erin Whalstrom?” Hawks asks.
“Once or twice. Like I said, it’s an insular industry. I’m sure we attended the same parties and events.”
“Did you ever see Erin with Alastor Shaw?”
“Yes. I saw them talking the night of Oasis.”
“Shaw said that he and Erin had sex in the stairwell.”
I shrug. “I wasn’t present for that.”
“Did you see them leave the show together?”
“No.”
“Did you see Shaw leave at all?”
“No.”
“What was the last time you saw him?”
“I have no idea. There’s more wine than art at those things.”
“Did you see Mara there?”
I hesitate a fraction of a second, distracted by the vivid image of the first time I laid eyes on her. I see the wine splashing across her dress, soaking into the cotton, dark as blood.
“Well?” Hawks prompts me, leaning forward, blue eyes keen behind his glasses.
“Yes, I saw her. Only for a moment, early in the night.”
“But you didn’t see her leave.”
“No.”
Hawks lets the silence stretch between us. This is an age-old technique, to encourage me to add on to my statement. To get me babbling.
I keep my mouth firmly shut. Smiling at Hawks. Waiting with equal patience.
Hawks switches tactics.
“How long have you known Alastor Shaw?”
“We went to art school together.”
“Really.”
He didn’t know that. Sloppy, sloppy, officer.
I can tell he’s annoyed at the omission—color rises up from the collar of his shirt.
“The Siren called you rivals,” Hawks says.
“The Siren likes to stir up drama.”
“You’re not rivals?”
“I don’t believe in rivalry—I’m only in competition with myself.”
“Would you call yourselves friends?”
“Not particularly.”
“Just another acquaintance.”
“That’s right.”
Hawks is tiring of these bland answers. He sucks a little air through his teeth.
“I’m surprised you agreed to meet with me without your lawyer present. You were adamant that any communication with Mara go through your attorney.”
“I still am. She was treated disrespectfully by the police after she was attacked.”
“That wasn’t my department.”
“I don’t care who it was. It won’t happen again.”
“But you’re not concerned about being … disrespected.”
“I’m sure you know better than that.” I smile at Officer Hawks. He doesn’t smile back.
“Where were you the night of November second?” he abruptly asks.
“I have no idea. Do you remember where you were on random evenings weeks past?”
“Do you keep a calendar?”
“No.”
“Does your secretary?”
“No.”
This is true. I don’t allow Janice to keep any record of my appointments. Sonia memorizes my schedule—but she certainly wouldn’t recite it for Hawks.
“Do you know a woman named Maddie Walker?”
“No.”
Hawks takes a photograph out of the inside breast pocket of his sport coat. He slides it across the table toward me.
I look at the picture without touching it. It shows a dark-haired girl laying on a steel table, eyes closed, clearly dead. Her skin bluish-gray, mottled with bruises around the jaw. Shaw was rough when he wrenched her mouth open and stuffed a snake in it.
I recognize her from the top floor of the tenements, where Shaw had her strung up in his spiderweb.
I want to rip his fucking throat out, remembering how he lured me up there and trapped me, calling in a fleet of cops to catch me with the body.
It was a stupid mistake, one that still humiliates me. But I can’t let any hint of that emotion show on my face.
Hawks watches closely for a reaction. That’s why he gave me a photo of the corpse and not a picture of the girl taken when she was still alive. He’s looking for clues on my face.
Do I recognize her? Am I shocked by the image?
Or, most damning of all:
Am I man surveying my own work?
Am I satisfied?
Am I aroused …
Blandly, I say to Hawks, “I’ve never met her.”
“She was killed in the Mission District. Police saw a man fleeing the scene. He was tall and dark-haired.”
“That only applies to half the men in San Francisco.”
“It applies to you.”
“And thousands of others.”
Hawks takes the photograph back, tucking it into his pocket once more, right against his heart.
He takes this personally. It’s not only ambition for him.
And he is losing patience with my stonewalling. Slowly and surely.
“Have you injured yourself lately?” he demands.
I never visited a doctor when I sprained my ankle jumping from that roof. It’s possible someone saw me limping in the week afterward, when I wrapped my ankle in a Tensor bandage and swallowed handfuls of painkillers until the swelling went down.
“Nothing comes to mind,” I say vaguely.
“Don’t have much of a memory, do you?” Hawks sneers.
“I like to keep my mind occupied with more interesting things than the minutia of my schedule and the time people leave parties.”
“What’s interesting to you?” Hawks asks, his jaw rigid, his hand still resting against the breast pocket of his jacket.
“I’m curious why you’re talking to me, and not to Shaw.”
“You think he attacked Mara? And killed her roommate?”
“That’s what Mara says.”
“You believe her.”
“She’s very perceptive.”
So is this cop. She was right about that.
Hawks knows something is fucked up here. He can sense the links between our strange trio, but he can’t conceptualize what they mean.
He has no evidence—I didn’t leave so much as a fingerprint at the tenements. I’m sure Shaw was even more careful.
How infuriating, to have to work inside the bounds of the law. Your hands always tied by rules and regulations. Only one side playing fair.
I see the strain on Hawks’ face. His impotent anger.
He’s been around enough criminals to know that I’m no law-abiding citizen. But that’s true of most of the wealthy elite in this city. We all flout the rules for our benefit. He can’t decide if I’m just another rich prick, or the killer he seeks.
I’ve already satisfied myself that Hawks has nothing. No evidence against me, nothing but suspicion.
Hawks takes a breath, steadying himself. Getting ready for one last push.
He leans forward, his voice low and steady.
“Was Erin perceptive? Would she have warned Mara about you?”
I snort. “Nobody needs warning about me. It’s well known that I’m an asshole.”
“You’ve made enemies.”
“Only boring people are universally beloved.”
“Take Carl Danvers, for instance.”
Now a chill falls between us, which I have to pretend to ignore with every fiber of my being.
“Who?” I say.
“He was a critic for the Siren.”
“Oh, right,” I say dismissively.
“He disappeared thirteen weeks ago. All his belongings are still in his apartment. No message to anyone.”
“Your point?”
“He was no fan of yours. Wrote a scathing article about you the week he disappeared.”
“People write about me every day.”
“Did you speak to him at Oasis?”
This is a trick. Danvers was already dead the night of the show. His bones resided inside my sculpture, on display for all to see.
Hawks is testing to see if I’ll correct him, to judge how closely I followed the disappearance, and how well I know my own timeline.
“Jesus, who knows. I probably talked to fifty people that night.”
“But you don’t remember,” Hawks sneers, his disdainful expression showing exactly what he thinks about that.
Enough obfuscating. It’s time for Hawks to take a punch in return.
“This is pathetic,” I sneer. “If this is all you have … missing art critics, conversations that nobody heard and timelines that no one can pin down … the SFPD is grasping at straws. Mara will be disappointed. Sounds like you’ve got no fucking clue what happened to her roommate.”
Hawks snaps back, “Our profiler says the person who arranged that body fancies themself an artist and a genius. Sound familiar?”
“Oh, wow.” I roll my eyes. “Did they also guess it was a white male? Hope Captain Obvious isn’t getting a Christmas bonus.”
“You think this is funny?” Hawks hisses.
“Well, you sure as fuck can’t be serious,” I say, pushing back my chair and standing up from the table. “Because this interview was a joke.”
Striding over the conference room door, I wrench it open and call to Janice, “See Officer Hawks out, will you, Janice? Sounds like he’s got a lot of work to do.”
With that, I leave Hawks stewing in my disdain.
I’m a good enough actor that I don’t think I showed any nerves.
But in truth, it rankled me that he connected the dots to Danvers.
Goddamn Shaw for shoving us both under the microscope. This is all his fucking fault. I’ve never had a cop so much as look my way before this. Now they have a fucking description of me. They’ll be watching everything I do.
Usually, I’d head back up to my office to mull this over alone. I feel angry enough to bite the head off anyone who even looks at me.
But I don’t want to be alone—I want Mara. I want to tell her everything that happened. I want to hear what she thinks.
I’m only halfway up the stairs when I collide with her hurrying down.
“I’m sorry,” she gasps. “I couldn’t wait any longer. I couldn’t stand not knowing what was going on.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “Hawks left.”
“What did he say?”
I take her hand. “Come on. Let’s get a drink, and I’ll tell you.”
We leave the building, after a quick glance down the sidewalk to be sure Hawks isn’t still lurking around.
I take Mara to a dingy little pub that serves home-brewed cider, her favorite.
We sit across from each other in a dark and quiet corner, the oak tabletop already sticky long before Mara spills a little cider on it.
Briefly, I recap the conversation between me and the detective. I tell her everything, even the part about Danvers.
“Is Hawks right?” Mara whispers.
“Yes,” I admit. “I killed him.”
Mara’s breath catches on the inhale, then releases in a shaky waver.
“Can he prove it?”
“Probably not.”
The only evidence is enclosed inside Fragile Ego. It was insane for me to sell it. In that moment, my own ego had swelled past all reason.
No one knows about the bones, except Shaw.
Yet another reason he needs to die.
“The cop’s a crusader,” I say to Mara. “He’s not going to drop it.”
Mara looks up at me from under the fan of her dark lashes.
“Will you kill him, too?” she asks quietly.
“I’d prefer not to.”
Hawks is doing his job, and he’s not that bad at it. Nobody else noticed Danvers.
When the fuck did I make this rule for myself, not to murder people I respect? It’s inconvenient.
“Please don’t,” Mara says, relieved.
“Understand this, though,” I tell her, my voice low and cold. “I’ll do what I have to do. No one is going to take you from me … and no one is taking me from you.”
Now she shifts in her seat.
She doesn’t want me in jail, but she also doesn’t want to be party to the slaughter of a decent human.
“It probably won’t come to that.”
Mara sips her drink, her throat clenching convulsively.
She knows better than to ask me to promise.
