The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) (13 page)

“Thank goodness you’re such a dedicated worker then.”

“It wouldn’t hurt you to be kind, you know,” she says.

I let out a dark laugh. She has no idea what she’s talking about. Kindness doesn’t breed sympathy. I was kind to my sister, and how does she repay me? She set me up.

She played me!

Chapter Seventeen

Aster

“Inmate Redd, you got a visitor,” Giraffe-neck tells me.

“Not now.” I’m still trying to get over the shock that the recipient of the quilt was someone on the Masterpiecers. Either Ivy isn’t safe or she’s involved.

“Let me reschedule.” Giraffe-neck’s poised next to me like some root vegetable. Her lower body doesn’t shift but her lengthy neck curves and tips as she pretends to push on the walkie-talkie strapped to her shoulder.

I sigh and look up. “Who is it?”

“A police officer.”

I hop off the couch. It must be Josh. Robyn kept her word.

“Never seen an outlaw so excited to meet up with a police officer,” she remarks.

I don’t bother explaining my relationship with Josh to Giraffe-neck. It’s none of her business.

When we get to the visitation area, I realize it’s pouring outside. There are no windows in the dayroom, but here there are three. The light is dull gray and the glass is sprinkled with raindrops. That’s probably why they let the entire prison population stay indoors today.

When the door clicks, I go straight toward the table he’s sitting at. “I need you to check my sister’s bank account,” I say, dropping into the chair opposite him.

“Hello to you too, Aster.”

Josh’s black hair is matted with rain and his short-sleeved, navy shirt sticks to his skin. Serves him right for not wearing a coat. He says it’s because coats are cut too narrow, but I know it’s because he loves to put his muscular forearms on display.

“I think Ivy was paying Mom’s bills.”

“That’s swell. Means you don’t have to pay them.”

“That’s not swell! She lied to me, Josh.”

“How?”

“She never told me about the money.”

“Why are you so worked up about it?”

“Because—”
Ivy might be entangled with the mob.
Even though I’ve known Josh forever, I can’t confess my terrible intuition.

“Aster, I came to talk to you about something really important.”

God, if she is, then my present will give her quite a shock.

“How did Ivy’s quilt end up on the show?” Josh asks.

I startle. “Ivy’s quilt? I have no idea.”

“Want to know what I think? I think you have an idea…a very good one. I believe you found it next to Troy’s body and sent it there. I believe it’s the one you used as a
blanket
.”

The blood drains from my face.

He jolts so far forward I can see all the different shades of green around his black pupil. “You’re not denying this,” he whispers loudly.

I drop my gaze to my nails and the thin white crescents that are reappearing at the tips. “No. It was a blanket.”

“Aster,” he growls. “You’re lying. Just like you lied about the pizza. Troy Mann was a vegetarian. He wouldn’t order pepperoni! I have a freakishly detailed file on him. Did he even come to the pizzeria, or did you just follow him from your house?”

“I…he…maybe it wasn’t pepperoni. I don’t remember.”

“Sure.” He snorts.

“Okay fine. He didn’t stop by the pizzeria. I saw him at our house. I saw him go inside, and then I followed him back to the motel.”

“Finally! The truth comes out,” he says, slapping the desk. “Why are you always lying to me, Aster?”

I look up. “Always lying?”

“You know what I’m referring to,” he says.

“The baby?”

He nods.

“I never lied about the baby,” I say.

“Your doctor told me everything.”

“My doctor told you what I asked her to tell you. I was trying to protect you.”

“Bullshit.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t make it up. I felt it move. I saw it move. I was throwing up every morning.”

Josh’s fingers crawl over my shaky forearm like a spider. “It was all in your head.”

I swipe them off. “No, it wasn’t.”

“Aster…”

I can’t stop shaking as the memory of the blood pouring out of me the morning I lost the baby. “It was real,” I croak.

“Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

I push my chair back and jerk up. “I need to go.”

He sighs. “Don’t be like that.”

“Be like what?” I say, sniffling.

“Just stay.”

“And be interrogated and mocked? No, thank you. I’d rather go hang out with people who don’t think I’m crazy.”

“I never said you were crazy.”

“You didn’t have to say it.” I keep my gaze leveled on his. “Don’t bother coming back here anymore.”

“I’m going to come back. I’m in charge of the case.”

It would have been too much to hope that he come back for me. Slowly, his face fragments, and I’m left with the one of the dead man. Every night, I see it. Every day, I think of it. The chin-length dark hair muddied with sweat, the crooked nose, the olive skin tinted red with blood. I blink and he’s gone, and Josh is back, still looking contrite. He claps his hand around my wrist. I let his touch warm me for a second, and then I don’t.

“Before you go, can you tell the warden to inform the guards that I
am
allowed to watch the show whenever I want?”

“The warden would never listen to me.”

“He did the first time around.”

“What are you talking about? What first time?”

“Ivy told me you got me that privilege.”

“The warden? I’ve never even met the man.”

“If
you
didn’t talk to him, then who did?”

“Are you sure someone did? Are you sure you didn’t convince yourself that—”

I give him such a glacial stare that he shuts up, and then I plant both my palms on the table and lean across it. “I’m not crazy.” I don’t scream this, but I do make sure each word rings out loud and clear. “Got it?”

His eyes have gone wide. I whirl around and make my way back to the secure door. I expect him to call me back, maybe even apologize, but he doesn’t.

“I want to see the commander,” I tell the guard.

“Did you request it on your digital box?”

“No.”

“No, ma’am.”

Seriously?
“No,
ma’am
.”

“What is the nature of your request?”

“A complaint,
ma’am
.”

“Against the police officer?”

“No.” After a beat, I remember to add, “Ma’am.”

“We can stop by his office, but if he’s busy—”

“If he’s busy, I’ll make an appointment.”

She leads me down a new corridor, her long, thick braid swinging across her podgy back. I haven’t met the warden yet. I didn’t think I would need to, what with my stay in this prison being transitory. I’m not sure what sort of man I’m expecting, but definitely not one who’s half my size and watering a plant.

“What may I do for you?” he asks when he spots me in the doorway.

I snap my gaze to another part of the room until I think I’ve got my gawking under control. Then I look back at him. “It’s about my sister, Ivy.”

Something flashes across his face, as though the name is familiar to him. Then again, everyone in America is familiar with my sister’s name now.

“You may leave,” he says.

I think he’s dismissing me and I’m about to lose it, because I’ve reached my breaking point, but then the guard steps out and closes the door.

“Take a seat.” He gestures to the free chair in front of his desk.

Stunned, I sit.

“What about your sister?” he asks, setting down his watering can next to a framed picture of a little girl with a big dog posing against a colorful background. I suppose it’s his daughter. I check his left hand and, sure enough, find a ring.

“She’s on a show, but you must know that.”

“I do.”

“Ivy told me that Officer Cooper spoke to you about letting me watch it whenever it was on, but he swears he never spoke to you.”

“Officer Cooper didn’t ask me.” His skin tone has lightened. “Your sister did.”

“Ivy came to speak to you?”

Gradually, his color returns to normal. It’s so gradual that I can actually see it come back in patches across his face. “Yes. She was worried about you.”

Something warm replaces the chill I’ve carried around all day. “Well, the guards aren’t letting me watch the show whenever I want.”

“This is a department of corrections, not a country club.” His tone is kind. “My orders only go so far. There
is
a schedule, and even though the guards can be lenient, they must still enforce it.”

I want to tell him about Giraffe-neck’s bribe, but ratting out a guard probably won’t win me popularity points around here.

“I’m happy Ivy’s doing so well,” he adds.

“She didn’t do well today.” I chew on the inside of my cheek.

“She’s not disqualified.”

My teeth release my cheek. “She’s not? She’s still in?”

“Yes. That’s what the commentators were saying, although Dominic Bacci hasn’t made the official announcement.”

“Who’s out?”

“The graffiti artist, I think.”

“J.J.?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

Happiness fills my chest like helium. I believe I’ll take flight any second.

“Aster, since you’re here, I’d like to discuss your medication,” he says.

The balloon pops. “What about my medication?”

“A guard told me you’ve been refusing to take your pills.”

“I don’t need them. I haven’t taken them in months.”

“I was told you did need them.”

“By whom?”

“Mental illness doesn’t just go away. I had a sister—”

“And I have a crazy mother! I know what crazy is. I’m
not
crazy.”

He doesn’t speak, which is worse than if he did.

“Did Robyn put you up to this?” I ask.

“Robyn?”

“The shrink.”

“No. Miss Pierce and I haven’t discussed you yet.”

“Yet?”

“You’re bound to come up in our weekly debriefs.”

“I’ll be gone by then.”

“Gone? And where will you be going?”

“Home. The DA will set my court date soon, and I’ll be able to prove it was self-defense.”

He blinks. Three times. “Self-defense?”

I nod as I stare at the picture of his daughter again. Our mother had a picture like that on her sewing table. One child sitting in front of one of her quilts. I wasn’t the child. I know because I have a small mole next to my mouth and Ivy doesn’t. The girl in her picture didn’t have a mole.

“Is she yours, Commander Collins?” I point to the picture.

He does a belly-flop onto his desk to grab the frame. Is he afraid I’m going to blackmail him or something?

Frame still rattling between his fingers, he says, “Yes. She’s my daughter.”

“Be nice to her. That’s the best thing you can do for a child.”

He seems to relax when he realizes I mean her no harm, and sets the frame back down, but angles it away from me. I have to admit I’m a little offended that he would jump to that conclusion. As I stand, my gaze is drawn back to the picture. There was something about it…something familiar. I wonder if it’s the little girl. Maybe I served her pizza. I have the nagging feeling that’s not it.

Chapter Eighteen

Ivy

I’m sitting down with two lawyers, Dominic, and Josephine in one of the glass rooms we used earlier to study our lots. The crew has dismantled the other two rooms. Around us, there are no cameras and no assistants.

“So I’ve prepared a few words that we’d like you to learn by heart,” one of the lawyers tells me. She hands me a printout, which I read over quickly.

After I set it down, they begin explaining that journalists are going to try to rile me up to get a reaction. I am not to lose my calm—like I did earlier, at the auction.

I glare at the male lawyer who’s just interjected that bit. “I was feeling faint.”

He doesn’t respond. He just plays with his lacquered fountain pen, spinning it like a top on the glass table.

The female lawyer breaks the silence. “They’re going to bring up your sister—”

“My sister? Why would they bring her up?”

All four exchange a look.

Then Dominic skews up his lips and says, “Because she’s in jail. They’ve been trying to get a statement from you about her since the day you arrived. Anyway, they’ve dug up everything they could find. But not just about you. About all the contestants,” he adds as though it will make me feel better. It doesn’t.

“They’ll bring up the murder,” the woman lawyer says.

“It was self-defense.”

She glances at Dominic.

“It was,” I insist.

“Well, it still might come up.”

“It’s none of their business, right? I don’t have to respond.”

She shakes her oblong head. Her eyes are set so wide apart, she reminds me of a goat. “No. You don’t. We’d rather you don’t.”

Dominic’s complexion is a little ashen. “The only thing that matters today is proving you didn’t doctor the images of Kevin Martin.”

“Doctor images? Is that what he’s saying I did?”

“He’s not saying
you
did it,” the male lawyer explains, “but he is claiming the images were doctored. He’s even provided the originals. They’ve extracted the IP address from the PNG metadata and—”

“In English?” I ask.

He stops spinning his pen. “The originals date back three years and were taken in his town, but three years ago Kevin was serving in Afghanistan.”

My eyes go wide. “So the images really are fake?”

“Unless his entire platoon is lying about his whereabouts, then yes,” Dominic says.

“Does this mean I’m disqualified?”

Dominic gasps as though surprised I’ve come to that conclusion. “Of course not. But it does mean there’s been some rigging, and since you’re the only one who benefited from it—”

“Mister Bacci, with all due respect,
you
selected me. I couldn’t have been your only runner-up. Plus, I don’t know the first thing about computers or IP addresses or metadata.”

“Do you know somebody who does?” Josephine asks.