The Art of Murder

by Claire Ripley

  I was in Charleston to focus on my career and Connor would be leaving soon, allowing him to return to Agent Kasten. Or not. But I wouldn't be in the picture. I didn't need the distraction, nor did I have the energy to compete with a badass Swedish goddess.

  And how did she know about my past? I was cleared on those charges, but the guilt of T.R.'s death ate at me and was something I would never let go. I bristled, remembering her words.

  Twenty-Three

  The silence between us rang in my ears. We barely spoke or acknowledged each other on the flight back, save for him waking me to deplane. The car ride in the Suburban was thick with tension.

  "Can I have my phone back?" I asked dully. I knew the answer, but I figured it was worth a shot. Craving female company, I wanted to reconnect with Nina and Caty. I needed a sympathetic ear. Connor sent plenty of mixed signals and Agent Kasten wasn't even an option.

  His clenched jaw told me he'd heard my question but was ignoring it. Eventually I turned to look out the window, sighing. I missed my tiny apartment, phone, and fragments of freedom. I was hiding out and cut off from the world, with a brooding federal agent, and it appeared we weren't on speaking terms.

  Agent Kasten's veiled threat from today bothered me. I didn't know what to make of it. Blood was on my hands again and other than hoping the best for people I cared about, there was little I could do. I feared for Nina's safety, and I'd had very few updates from Connor. I was powerless in this situation, something I'd vowed to never be again. I was also concerned that the Sgambatis might hurt Connor as he attempted to hide me in his home.

  We were in his garage and after he disarmed the alarm, we entered the house. He disappeared, running through his safety-check, while I stood at the kitchen sink, poured myself a glass of water and stared into space. He returned a few minutes later, yanking the refrigerator open and bracing his arms against door frame, peered inside. Muscles stretched against the fabric of his shirt, his waist tapering into his jeans. He was all male, the holster strapped over his shoulders further adding to his sex appeal.

  He straightened up and I quickly looked away. "Going to bed," I muttered. Space and a good night's rest was what I needed. He caught my elbow as I walked past him.

  His eyes had darkened with intensity and were now studying me, a question lingering in them. "Alabama, I--" He cut himself off. I waited for him to finish. I wanted him to say what he was thinking, to answer that question behind his eyes and invite me in. To say something, as Connor Jackson, the man I'd glimpsed behind the armor. But last night's rejection crept in and I remembered my mortification.

  When he didn't continue, I pulled my arm free. "Goodnight, Connor."

  ✽✽✽

  I had changed into leggings and a tank top, washed up in the bathroom and was walking into the kitchen to refill my water glass when his voice stopped me in my tracks.

  "Stay a minute."

  While I had been changing, he had moved to the sofa, elbows braced on his knees and a pensive look cast over his features, still holding onto the same thought he wouldn't say ten minutes ago. He cradled a glass with amber liquid in his hands.

  I was curious about what he wanted yet I badly wanted sleep and to avoid the conversation that needed to happen between us.

  "I'm going to bed."

  He looked up, our gazes locking. "Have a seat, Emma."

  I held his stare for a moment before taking a seat on the chair, the furthest option from where he sat.

  "Want a drink?" He offered, this time conversationally and not at all as if he'd just ordered me to sit.

  "No."

  "No? Not even after seeing someone you know dead?"

  "No. I'm hungover," I snapped.

  "How are you holding up then? It's not every day you discover someone you know murdered."

  "I'm fine, Connor."

  "I don't believe you."

  "Then don't. But I'm going to bed." I stood up but he reached out and snagged my wrist, pulling me dangerously close. In this position I was standing, and he was eye level with my waist but he held all the power. His fingers were warm and pressed into my wrist. For a moment we stared each other down, and I was all too aware of his knees caging me in and the power he held over me with a silent command.

  "Sit. We're not done." He tugged me down next to him and I tumbled unceremoniously on the sofa at the same time trying to catch my balance and pull it together.

  Next to me Connor was the picture of calm, but I detected a storm beneath his cool exterior. He took a slow sip of his drink and spoke. "Can we go back to being Emma and Connor?"

  I whipped my head up to examine his profile. "What?"

  "I want to talk to you. About last night. About today."

  "I don't think we need--"

  "Yes, we do," he replied firmly, cutting me off.

  "Look," I began, "I drank too much last night and I embarrassed myself coming on to you like I did." The embarrassment still stung.

  "It was a big night for you. Worth celebrating. Besides you weren't that bad," he nudged me, and I caught the smirk on his face.

  I groaned. "I was that bad! I'm so sorry you had to witness that. I don't make a habit of getting completely shitfaced and hitting on people."

  "I really do need to know. Are you okay? Want to talk about Alexander Campo?"

  "I'm okay, truly," I emphasized, catching his raised eyebrows like he didn't believe me. "I'm just trying not to think about it."

  My thoughts circled round, and I started berating myself for being selfish. I hated my selfish thoughts. Two people were murdered and here I was lamenting about the slow growth of my career. The truth was I was rocked from what happened in New York. Meeting Alexander Campo and then discovering him, dead. All of that blood. I knew little what was going on with the investigation, and I was rattled at the same time. Alexander Campo's death and seeing that gruesome scene haunted me. I was the reason he was dead. Murdered. The sight of all that blood in the office would haunt me the rest of my life. It was frustrating that I was so close to closing the deal with Mr. Campo, and this happened. It felt like one step forward, two steps back. I go to Charleston and headline a gallery show and find myself on house arrest. I go to New York chasing another opportunity, and the owner of that gallery is murdered.

  "I mean, I'm alive, right?" I laughed to myself. "I should be grateful."

  "Hey." Connor squeezed my hand. "Nothing's happening to you on my watch."

  I studied his big, warm hand covering my own. "The truth is Mr. Campo's murder is scary. It’s scary it was so close to us when we were in New York. Its scary that I met with him the night before and then I'm the one to find him, dead. In a lot of blood that I wish I could un-see. And poor Geoff from the gallery. He died too. But at the same time, I'm a selfish and horrible person for even thinking about my life and moving my career along," I blurted. I looked up at Connor who was watching me with interest. "I can't believe I said all that," I groaned.

  "Hey." He clasped his other hand on top of the one covering mine, sandwiching my hand between his two hands. "You're not a bad person, Emma. You're in the middle of a murder investigation and an important witness. Unfortunately, your life is on hold. But you're going to help put these guys away. It may not feel like it, but you're doing something worthwhile."

  I nodded and stood up. "I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

  "Emma?"

  I paused at the doorway and glanced back. "Yeah?"

  "I wanted it too."

  ✽✽✽

  We ignored each other for two days, skirting around in a delicate dance to avoid interaction. It was ironic that I had all the time in the world, but no art supplies. I was bored out of my mind. Connor had been little company to me, either working in his office or going out. I paced the living room and kitchen, washing dishes and doing random cleaning to occupy myself. We'd been receiving takeout deliveries from the officers on duty outside the house, so there were never that many dishes to clean. The house wa
s outfitted with one TV and a DVD player, but no cable and Internet wasn't even an option considering I had no phone, laptop or iPad. Connor mentioned it was a rental or police safe house, so it was also devoid of books or any personal effects.

  We barely spoke to one another and did our best to give each other a wide berth. He'd leave for the police station each day, giving me a curt statement that he'd be back later or was going into the field. Whatever that meant. There was no news on the elusive Sgambatis and their whereabouts. Undercover officers were stationed outside the house at all times. Connor was a tough read nonetheless, maintaining his cool, emotionless demeanor. As tough as the situation was, obviously being holed up in his house for an undetermined amount of time, I couldn't forget that I really was safe for the time being. And I was attracted to him.

  Two days after our trip, he returned home with a box for me and a second, much larger package wrapped in brown paper.

  "Canvases!" I clapped gleefully and unwrapped them.

  "Yeah, Nina sent these for you while I was at the station." He handed me the smaller box.

  A cream envelope with my name was lying on top of the tissue paper.

  E -

  Looking forward to your show. As promised, a dress and shoes for my newest artist!

  xo,

  N

  "Oh my goodness." I pulled out the pale pink dress, all silk and organza. I'd never touched fabric this nice. It was feminine and delicate and daring. I loved it immediately. Nina had thoughtfully included strappy sandals with a higher heel than I'd ever worn.

  "What's all this?" Connor was watching me skeptically, his eyes panning from the shoes, to the dress, to me. "Hot date?"

  "No, um, Nina sent all this for my show."

  "What the fuck are you talking about?" he blurted.

  "I have an exhibition at the gallery in a few days..." I replied and carefully folded the dress into the tissue paper. "You knew this," I said, squaring my shoulders.

  "Are you fucking kidding me right now?" He rubbed face and glanced at me with a look of complete disbelief. I didn't answer and just looked at him, and Connor groaned. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"

  I bit my lip, tensing as I waited for more of his reaction. This was what I expected. The gallery show had been on my mind, and among the other disruptions being a witness to a murder can cause, being forced to hide out was one of the bigger inconveniences. I had to go.

  "Your name is on the marquee, for fuck's sake!"

  "Everything rides on that night for me."

  "Goddammit, Emma! This is a security nightmare! I'm doing everything possible to keep you alive and track down these people, and you want to attend an event...at the scene of the crime... with your name on the door?" His jaw ticked as he squared off with me, his hands propped on his hips.

  "This is a huge opportunity for my career, Connor. I can't miss it."

  "Should I remind you that you said the same thing about going to New York?"

  "Connor, you didn't have to go to New York!"

  "Are you serious? Emma, you could have been killed up there! A man was killed in fact. You're not going anywhere! Not on my watch!"

  "I have to go. I'm not asking you, I'm telling you."

  "I'm not asking either. It's not up for debate." He sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Your safety is my responsibility. Do you know how much heat I took from not taking you to the police station to make a statement on Campo's murder, and now you want to attend an event?"

  I cringed and shoved my hands in my jeans pockets. When he put it like that, it did seem undermining. "This is a once in a lifetime event, showcasing my work," I replied quietly. "It's everything I've worked for. This is a huge chance for my livelihood and my career."

  "I can have the FBI reimburse you some money once all this is over. We can help you get back on your feet."

  I stared at him. "Did you just really say that to me?" Fury spilled through my veins and my cheeks flushed with emotion. "You know, you're just like any other hired gun and law enforcement promising reimbursement without seeing the person. This isn't just about the bottom line or compensation. This is my life and my dream."

  I walked away from him and drew in a deep breath, tucking my hair behind my ears. I paced the length of the kitchen and returned to where he stood and placed my palms on the counter between us.

  "Tell me what's going on with the investigation." I held his gaze.

  "I can't give you any updates." He mirrored my stance, and I did my best to keep eye contact and not stare at his arms, muscles stretching against the sleeve of his T-shirt.

  "People are turning up dead and I'm the cause of all this--" I waved my arms. "I have a right to know what's happening."

  "I'm not discussing the case with you."

  I shifted tactics. "Maybe I can help. Maybe there's something I saw or heard that could shed new light on things."

  "You've been interviewed twice already."

  "I want to help."

  "You can by listening to me and stay out of sight. That includes not using your phone or headlining an artsy event. Your life is on the line," he snapped.

  "I can't sit by and do nothing! I've had enough death and blood on my hands to last a lifetime. Tell me something! Anything!"

  He narrowed his eyes at me. "What do you mean you have blood on your hands?"

  Now I had his attention. I didn't mean to let that last part sound like it did. "Nothing." I looked away. I didn't want to bring up T.R. now. If he didn't know about what happened, there was no sense in telling him the awful truth.

  He moved closer and gripped my shoulders. "What do you mean? You think all of this is your fault?"

  "They're going after everyone else! Don't you see? I'm better off taking my chances and moving on with my life than hiding out with an asshole that won't tell me anything that's going on."

  "These people—the Sgambati brothers—know you are an eyewitness to a cold-blooded murder. They will stop at nothing to get to you!" His eyes darted back and forth between mine, darkened with emotion.

  We didn't move, our faces inches apart. "Then how does this end?" I whispered. I wrenched my arms from his grasp and pulled away.

  His silence echoed through the kitchen as I gave him a last look before walking away.

  Twenty-Four

  The third day was much the same...plenty of time on my hands, but now I had art supplies. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a tank top and tied my hair in a messy knot on my head. Connor had left a note on the counter, saying to stay put. Surprise, surprise.

  "Obviously," I scoffed, pouring a cup of coffee from the leftover pot. His closed office door caught my eye. Trying the knob, I found it was unlocked. Much like the rest of the house, the room was pretty bare. His laptop was the only item on the desk. I sat down and looked around. The desk and chair faced the doorway and an empty bookshelf sat behind the desk. I tried the desk drawers, but they were locked.

  Hmm. I pulled a bobby pin from my hair and tried the lock again. After a few minutes, it all came back to me, the old skill I'd learned from a foster sibling. I had the top drawer open a minute later.

  Bingo. My cell phone was lying right on top.

  I pulled it out, powered it on, and checked for messages. A missed call from Nina and a text from Caty, both checking in.

  There was something else—a folder labeled Emma Elliott. I pulled the file folder out and drew in a short breath.

  There it was, my life summed up and laid out in terse facts. Names, dates and addresses of foster families. My bank records, with the pitiful sums over the years. Classes I took part-time in college until dropping out. And, worst of all was the summary of the altercation leading to the death of Terrance Ryan Schwartz. The circumstances surrounding my mother's death.

  I slumped against the chair, my stomach sinking. He knew everything. Everything about me laid out in black and white, some of those facts the source of deep shame and guilt.

  Unshed t
ears stung the backs of my eyes. Deep down, I knew he had access to this information, information that was vital to my safety and security. But this felt intrusive, including details that a regular background check wouldn't cover. I felt betrayed. These details were private. Some of them I never wanted to relive.

  I took my phone and the file folder and wandered through the house, pacing and thinking, willing Connor to return. I would pounce as soon as he got back and demand answers. How dare he?

  Now that I had my phone back, I could paint with music playing, something that always made me feel better. Grabbing one of the canvases from Nina, I scrolled through my phone and found an opera playlist, popped in my earbuds and set to work. A mix of emotions energized me; anger, betrayal, frustration, pain. Soon I was lost in the soprano's sorrowful voice.

  My brush was the balm to my soul and helped me cope with panic attacks and anxiety. Painting helped me understand the emotions I was constantly ignoring. I felt through painting. Today I could channel angry brush strokes into something worthwhile. I channeled my anger into bold brush strokes exploding in vivid reds and blacks, set against yellow and teal dotting the canvas. Normally I painted abstract vignettes, people and animal portraits, but today was all abstract, embodying all the feelings I couldn't voice.

  Soon, paint was splattered up my arms and the bun I had piled on top of my head was falling loose. Time passed in a blur. I didn't look up until a hand on my shoulder made me jump out of my skin.

  "God! You scared me!" I yanked out my buds and glared at Connor. "What are you doing scaring the living daylights out of me?"