The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) (20 page)

“I’m still not leaving. If you want me out, you’ll have to disqualify me.”

From the regretful look he gives me, I realize that must be exactly what they’re planning, and my mood, already soured by the precinct and the interview, spoils like bad milk.

“That wouldn’t be fair,” I say in a raspy voice.

Brook doesn’t respond. The silence hangs heavily between us. It fills the small space like steam, thinning the breathable air.

“The public’s vote counts for something,” I add, mostly to reassure myself. “Now, can you please switch the elevator back on?”

His fingers hover over the lever. “Could Aster have had anything to do with Kevin’s pictures?”

“I doubt it.”

“But you’re not sure? She’s your sister—”

“If I remember correctly, you had no clue your brother entered the competition,” I snap back.

He frowns, and it leaves a deep vertical groove between his dark eyebrows. “I did know. His girlfriend told me.”

“The one you screwed?”

“You know about that?”

“Yeah.”

After a long bout of silence, he says, “I have a great lawyer.”

“Are you threatening me?”

His forehead smooths out. “I meant for your sister, Ivy.”

“Oh.”

“And he’d be free.”

“Really?” Suspicion creeps into my brain. “Is he free even if I decide to stay on the show?”

“Yes.”

“Does he work pro bono?”

“No. He’s a friend.”

“Why would you do that?”

“So you can forgive me for being disrespectful toward you.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Just say yes, and I’ll make the call.”

His offer feels too good to be true, yet I find myself accepting. “Okay.”

The elevator jerks to life and the lights snap back on, bright, blinding. Soon, the doors are opening. Brook brushes a strand of hair off my cheek and whispers that he’s going to call his lawyer friend right away. I thank him in a muted voice before stiffly walking out, past Chase and Lincoln who are standing by the door of the makeup room, past the myriad of assistants and camera crew on their coffee break, past the tree-lined hallway, and into my tented safe haven.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Aster

I gaze at the television screen long after the afternoon test has ended, but I don’t see anything.

“Male deodorant has a real fascinating effect on women,” Driscoll says, tipping his head to the commercial on the television. “Want a whiff of my armpits, Redd?”

Mechanically, I look up at the guard. “I’m allergic to male stench.”

His smile drops and so does his voice. “I forget. You’re one of them now.”

“One of them?” I ask.

“Lawn grazers.”

“Huh?” When it dawns on me what he’s inferring, I feel a sharp desire to slap him. I curl my fingers into fists against my stiff jumpsuit. “What is it you want, Sergeant?”

“What is it I want? Now let me see…a lightweight dome tent, a Harley Davidson, a set of fancy steak knives—”

“I mean with me. I doubt you came for small talk.”

“You doubt right.” He shifts on his spindly legs. “Turns out you’re a popular girl, Redd. You got someone waiting for you in the visitation area.”

I’m betting it’s Josh. He probably made a U-turn on the freeway. “Officer Cooper?”

“Nope.”

“It’s not?”

“Just said it wasn’t.”

For a moment, I think it’s Ivy, but she’s in New York being questioned by some detectives.

“You better hurry. Fancy man like him probably has elsewhere to be.”

“Fancy man? I don’t know any fancy men.”

“Quit stalling. I gotta go train the
yobwoc
.”

I frown as I stand up and trail him to the door.

He glances back at me. “Gotta go explain that giving prisoners access to Internet on cell phones doesn’t fly with me. You knew that, right, Redd? That you ain’t allowed to ask guards for their phones?” As I walk past him, he adds in a low voice, “At least not for free?” He falls in stride with me. “In the future, if you ever need a phone, I got one.” He pats his pant pocket, and then his hand crawls to his crotch, which he pats in turn.

Asshole,
I think but don’t say. My eyes must be pretty expressive though, because Driscoll’s cocky grin dissolves. When he buzzes me into the attorney visitation area, a suit-clad man pushes his chair back, rises, and extends his hand. “Hi, Aster. I’m Dean Kane, your lawyer.”

“My lawyer?”

“Yes.”

His dark suit and pink tie held flat against his dress shirt by a gleaming gold bar makes him look too elegant to be state-appointed. His retainer alone must equal what I make in a year.

Sure enough, he adds, “You’re my pro bono case of the year.” Then he props his briefcase on the table and gestures toward the chair opposite him.

“So”—he takes out a folder—“I familiarized myself with your case, Aster. You’re being charged with first-degree murder for running over—”

“First-degree murder?” I yelp. “It was self-defense.”

“You hit a man,
then
you ran him over. You’re facing forty years to life imprisonment.”

“What?” I pinch the skin on my arm to make sure I’m awake. Unfortunately, I am. “But he threatened me.”

“That’ll be the base of our defense. But there are aggravating circumstances that aren’t going to work in our favor. For one, your psych report.” He takes out a paper from the file. “It says here you were diagnosed with schizophrenia at the age of twelve and that your condition has progressively worsened.”

I feel like I’ve been punched…hard. Spasms erupt in my extremities and then move to my muscles…to my teeth…to my bones.

He shuts the file. “Also, a witness informed me that you took something from the crime scene, which gives you motive for the assault.”

“A…A witness?”

“Yes.”

I choke on my saliva, which makes me cough.

Dean nods. “What was worth killing a man for?”

I blanch.

He leans across the table. “I’m on your side, Aster.”

“I didn’t take anything.”

“Did you
not
hear me say I was on your side?” When I keep quiet, he drums his fingers on the table. His large gold pinkie ring draws my attention. I try to make out the insignia. Suddenly, he stops tapping and grumbles loudly. “Look, I have several other cases I need to oversee. Either you cooperate and give me something I can work with, or I’ll leave you to some newbie public defender who’ll ensure that the only way you leave this place is in a casket. Now, I strongly suggest option number one as I’ve never lost a case in the past, and without me, judging from your file, you’re not getting out of here alive.”

I don’t want to die. And I don’t want to stay in here forever. “My sister’s quilt.”

It takes him a second to register that I’m speaking about the case. “What did you do with the quilt?”

“I destroyed it.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s not the quilt that your sister auctioned on the Masterpiecers?”

“No.”

“Did you tell anyone else about the quilt?”

“Just—No.”

“Just whom?”

“Just a friend,” I say.

“Which friend?”

“Why do you need to know that?”

“To make sure they don’t go telling anyone else that you took a quilt from a dead man.”

“He won’t say anything.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Because I trust him.”

“From now on, you shouldn’t trust anyone but me. And you shouldn’t talk to anyone else. Okay?” Dean asks.

“Okay.”

“Was there anything else in the bag?”

“No.” I bite my lip. “Why did the cops interview my sister?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Please…I need to know.”

“They wanted to make sure she wasn’t the one behind the wheel of the Honda.”

“Huh?”

He sighs. “That she wasn’t the one who ran Troy Mann over.”

“Of course she wasn’t! It was me in the car.”

“Don’t worry, she told them that. She also told them about your affliction.”

“My what?”

“The schizophrenia.”

I bite down on my tongue to avoid sobbing or screaming—whichever comes first. “She told the detectives I was crazy?”

“Yes, but that’ll work in our favor. It’ll explain why you ran him over
after
you rammed into him. You’ll get sent to an institution.”

“I’m not crazy.”

He eyes me in silence as he gets up and tucks the file back into his fancy leather briefcase. “Would you rather stay here?”

“No, but—”

“Then make it work, and I’ll make it work.”

“How am I supposed to make it work?”

He swoops down and drops his voice. “Act like your mother used to.”

“You mean
does
. She’s still nuts.”

His lips perk into a bright smile. “You’re a quick study.”

I’m not sure what he means, but don’t have time to ask as he’s already standing and knuckling the door for the guard to open it. “Before I forget, I found out who was behind those doctored photos of the contestant.”

“Who?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as I inform Mister Martin,” he says, before flying down the hallway, the bottom of his pink tie flapping against his shiny belt buckle.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Ivy

While prepping me for the evening ceremony, Amy doesn’t dare look straight into my eyes, but Leila does. Her kohl-lined gaze is blacker than usual, and tighter. She’s still mad at me. When Amy leaves to gather more pins, she says, “You’re throwing everything away.”

“I’m not throwing anything away.”

“Oh, come on, Ivy. You’re all broken and hopeless. I can feel it. I can see it. And if I can see it, I know that you can too. Snap out of it.”

“Snap out of it? My life outside these walls is crumbling and you’re telling me to snap out of it?”

“Yes.”

“You have
no
idea what it feels like to be trampled by the world, scrutinized by everyone. No idea!” My voice trembles. “So don’t you dare tell me to snap out of it!”

Leila’s face shutters up just as Amy returns. Her head swings from Leila to me. She can tell something has gone down, but thankfully, she doesn’t get involved.

Leila undoes the black apron tied around her waist and sticks it on the counter in front of me. “My hand’s cramping,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“But—” Amy’s mouth is gaping.

Leila’s already gone.

“But—she—half your face,” Amy stutters.

“Are you done with my hair?” I ask in a toneless voice.

“Almost.” Her hands tremble as she sticks a bunch more pins in. “Um…do you want me to get another makeup artist? I’m sure—”

“Don’t bother. I’ll do it myself.”

As she packs up her tools, I take the black liner and some violet powder, and finish what Leila started. One of my eyes looks smaller than the other, but I don’t care. I just want to get this night over with. I toss the brushes and pencils onto the black apron and walk into the dressing room just as Maxine and Lincoln wiggle into their outfits.

“Could these be any shorter?” Maxine asks, attempting to tug the skirt on her cocktail waitress-like dress further down.

“At least we have tights on,” Lincoln says, her green-gold eyes on me as I pull my outfit off the hanger.

“They’re so sheer,” Maxine complains. “Everyone will see my cellulite.”

“Oh, stop it,” Lincoln says. “You don’t have any.”

“I do. Look.” Maxine pinches the back of her thighs.

The discussion makes me want to hit something. How can they talk about stupid butt dimples in front of me? My sister’s in a correctional facility for killing a man, and I’m being accused of setting up a fucking contestant.

“Oh…well,” Maxine says with a sigh. As she turns away from the mirror, she notices me. “I’m sorry about your sister.”

“Sorry about what?” I ask.

Maxine’s face colors. “Oh…uh…well, Kevin…he uh, told us what’s going on.”

“What did he say that makes you
sorry about my sister
?”

“Um…just that she…that the man…that she’s being charged with first-degree murder.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” I tell her.

“I’m sorry, Ivy. I didn’t mean—”

I pull off my bathrobe and tug on the tight satin number. “Just drop it, okay?”

She nods a great many times before finally rushing out of the dressing room.

“So…what’s up between you and Brook?” Lincoln asks. They brushed her blonde hair to one side like a fifties actress and strapped a crawling diamond earring to the ridge of her exposed ear.

“Why don’t you ask Kevin? He seems to know everything around here,” I say as I yank on smoke-colored tights.

“Funny”—she snorts—“seriously though, you were in that elevator a long time.”

“How do you know how long I was in there?”

“Because your assistant came huffing and puffing up the stairs, carping into her mouthpiece about Mister Jackson not letting her do her job. So”—she bats her eyelashes—“what happened?”

“He told me I should quit the show and I told him to go screw himself.” I leave out the part about the lawyer.

“No you didn’t.”

“Not in those exact words, but yeah, I did.”

“It would’ve been pretty cool if you’d forfeited.”

I flip her the middle finger, which makes her laugh.

“You know, I’m pretty sure that if we weren’t competing against each other, we’d get along well, you and I.”

I slide my feet into a pair of pointy yellow heels, and stand up. “I guess we’ll never know.”

Lincoln’s looking at my charcoal dress without really looking at it. “Kevin freaks me out,” she says suddenly. “The way he looks at us…like we’re part of the Taliban. Ever since he arrived, the atmosphere’s changed. His tent is right in front of mine, and last night, I swear I could hear him pace around his room. And then outside on the grass, there was definitely noise. I don’t feel safe. That’s what I was telling Chase this afternoon.”

“And what did Chase say?”

“He told me to come and sleep in his room if I needed to.”

“How gallant of him,” I say mockingly.

She cocks her head to the side. “Are you jealous?”