The Art of Murder

by Claire Ripley

  "I was just checking on you. How was your day?" He'd caught on to my sour mood, backing up slightly and scanned the canvases leaning up against the floor and the current one on the table.

  I didn't wait a moment longer to ask him about the file. "What's this about, Connor?" I pushed the folder at him.

  He frowned and stepped closer. "You were in my office?"

  "What did you do?" I asked, louder this time. "Why do you know these things about me? These private things?"

  "Emma, it's part of my job..."

  "This—” I pointed the folder in his direction. "This is beyond that. You were digging around about me. Why?"

  He scrubbed a hand over his face and exhaled. "You have to understand. This is what I do. I collect information about people in investigations. It's part of the process."

  "What does my dead mother have to do with this?" I asked in a louder, shrill voice. "What does my juvenile record have to do with the investigation? I'm not guilty. I didn't mean it."

  "Stop.” He came closer and took the folder from me and cornered me against the table.

  "Don't touch me!" I tried pulling out of his grasp.

  "Hear this, Alabama." He gripped my chin so that I was forced to look up and into his eyes. "I know everything about you, like it or not."

  "You have no right—” I started, feeling myself getting wound up.

  "You can tell me all about it later. But for now, get dressed. We're going out."

  "What—are you serious? No." I crossed my arms and glared up at him. He was unbelievable! I was pissed at him, and he had the nerve to order me around!

  Connor towered over me and we glared at each other. "Look." He sighed and took a breath. "We've been in this house the last three days. This is a chance to leave these four walls. Let's take the opportunity and you can yell at me later all you want. Fair?"

  He had a good point. I was sick of the house. I didn't know what he had in mind, or the sudden reason we were going out, but it was enticing.

  "You're skirting the issue," I grumbled. "But fine. I'll get dressed."

  I hated that I so easily bent to his will. I hated myself for not sticking it to him and fighting it out longer. I hated that I cleaned up the paint on my face and arms. I hated that I changed clothes, that I chose a sweater I knew looked good on me. He didn't tell me where we were going until we were in the car. Seeing him dressed nicer than usual, my defenses were up. Jeans and a button-down shirt, with a blue blazer. The leather jacket and federal agent had transformed into Going-To-Dinner-Nice. He had shaved and smelled deliciously of woodsy aftershave and spicy, musky cologne.

  "Where are we going? And do I need to dress up or something?" After buckling the seatbelt and we were on the road, I checked my hair in the mirror to confirm that the bun on my head was still in place and no hair was escaping. I'd made a quick change into into another pair of jeans, cream turtleneck sweater and brown boots.

  "No need to dress up. We're having dinner at my sister's house." His eyes were on the road, one hand on the wheel with the other arm slung easily on the console between us.

  "Are you serious? What the hell?!" Things were happening too fast. It was easier to be angry with him than examine why I felt a sense of excitement. And I was irritated. I didn't do families. I never knew how to act or what to make of families that hug and laugh and genuinely like each other. If Connor wanted to have dinner with his sister, I suspected his family was in this category.

  "Emma." His hand reached out and squeezed my thigh for reassurance. "This is the best I can do to get us both out of the house right now. I can't check out public places, but I can confirm my sister's is safe for a few hours. Plus I think you'll like her." His hand stayed where it was for the rest of the drive and that alone kept my mind from spinning into a bundle of nerves about meeting family.

  Connor parked in a driveway of a big farmhouse, white with black shutters and a huge wraparound porch. Even though it was winter, identical over-sized concrete planters with flowing vines and ferns welcomed visitors. Golden light spilled from the windows.

  He hadn't prepared me for a family visit, but I was curious to meet his sister and didn't have time to object with anything else as he opened the door.

  "Connor! I'm so glad you came! I've missed you!"

  I blinked at the tiny woman throwing herself into Connor's arms, joy filling her face as she greeted him. Abby Donovan was short and petite, dressed in leggings and a tunic, her long sandy blond hair swept up into a messy ponytail. She looked exactly like Connor, but with tinier, more refined features and an easy, open smile.

  "It hasn't been that long," Connor replied, picking his sister up and in a one swift move, did something that had her wincing and pulling her arm back.

  "Asshole. I'll take you down if you do that again. And I swear--" She broke off, laughing, swatting his arm. "I'll give your steak to the dog." Putting her hands on her hips, she turned her attention to me. "I'm Abby, by the way. I'm so happy you're here!"

  Before I could respond, Abby had gripped me in a hug, catching me by surprise. I wasn't used to hugging in general, so hugging strangers by way of introduction was foreign and uncomfortable. Abby squeezed me with surprising strength. She smelled like what I always imagined my own mom would smell like, a mix of perfume and laundry detergent and lovely cooking smells rolled up into one delicious, homesick-wrenching scent.

  Gingerly I stepped back, extricated myself from Abby and told her in my most polite voice, "Pleasure to meet you, Abby. Thank you for having me."

  Connor flashed a quick grin down at me, oblivious to my momentary freak out, and grabbed my hand, leading me inside. "It's a bit chaotic here with the babies—"

  I was lost in the sight of a diaper-clad baby toddling toward us, a big smile stretched across its face. The baby held its arms up to Connor, who scooped up the baby in a swift gesture and was holding it up high while it squealed in delight.

  "Abs, which one is this?" he shouted into the kitchen where Abby had disappeared. He turned to me with an apologetic smile before turning back to the laughing, wiggling baby in his arms. "Identical twins, Alabama. I can never get them straight."

  I gaped at Connor. "Who are you right now?" I had never seen this side of Connor. This new Connor with an easy smile and throwing laughing babies in the air. My heart squeezed at the unfairness of it all, watching this beautiful man make a baby laugh and knowing I would likely never get this. Him or the baby, that is. I watched the domestic scene playing out before me. I'd never felt so out of place in my life.

  Abby poked her head into the living room. "That's Luke. Dinner's ready in ten. Emma, want to give me a hand?"

  "Sure." I followed her into the kitchen, where she handed me a glass of wine and put me to work putting bread in a basket.

  As Abby tossed a salad she said, "So. I'm so glad to finally meet you. Connor's told me so much about you."

  "Has he now?" I murmured, casting a glance into the living room where he and Peter, Abby's husband, were talking. As he chatted with his brother-in-law, Connor looked, well, relaxed. More like himself and yet a version I'd yet to see.

  "You know, this is such a fun surprise to have you guys for dinner. My brother's usually very busy and we don't see each other much...enough." Abby babbled as she pulled out plates and finished throwing everything on the table. "He hasn't said much, of course, about the investigation, but I'm just so glad you're around with the stress that's involved for him."

  Huh? What exactly had he told her? What in the world does she mean, stress for him?

  "What are the babies' names?" I found that getting people to talk about themselves or their kids kept the conversation off me.

  "Luke and Lila," she replied with a smile. "They're trouble. They'll be a year old next month."

  "And they walk already?" I didn't know anything about babies, but wasn't walking a big deal?

  "They both started walking at seven months. I think they're competing with each other." She rolled he
r eyes. "After that, my life changed—not a free minute." She called out to the living room. "Hey boys, dinner's ready! Emma, go ahead and sit, honey."

  Honey. Abby was a whirling dervish, nurturing and stressed and scattered, all in the most delightful way. The endearment caught my attention though. No one had ever called me anything other than Emma, and in a short amount of time I'd received a nickname and an endearment. It was...nice.

  We sat in the dining room, with two identical babies clad in nothing but diapers rolled up to the table in their highchairs. It was clear that Abby and Peter had a system and they each handled one baby during dinner. Connor sat to my right, near his brother-in-law at head of the table. Peter blessed the table, then the moment of quiet was gone. Everyone was talking at once, passing dishes and serving themselves. Following Connor's lead, I plated my food and watched everyone else out of the corner of my eye.

  With a pang, I surveyed the domestic scene playing out in front of me. This seemed like a movie stylized version of what Norman Rockwell paintings and Nancy Meyers movies with perfectly chaotic and happy families that ate Sunday dinner and hugged each other and their dinner guests, with diaper-clad babies wreaking just the right amount of havoc on the beautiful home. It was the husband and wife, mom and dad vignette that wrenched my gut, but the look of joy on the baby's face when Connor picked him up and blew a raspberry on his belly and the resulting gurgle of laughter that had tears springing to my eyes. I'd never experienced anything like this sense of belonging. And I was an outsider for crying out loud.

  Conversation floated around me while I stared at my food, appetite gone. Connor and Peter were talking football and the upcoming Super Bowl. The babies offered a diversion to keep Abby from asking any more questions about myself. Every time she started to say something, one of the babies—I’d already mixed them up—would yell or food would get tossed on the highchair tray. I was so far out of my element. This was what I'd always dreamed of and wanted. Family, around the table, the lovely chaos of it all, and it was taunting me that I didn't have. I never did, and never would. Whatever was going on between me and Connor was temporary. He was out of my league. Older than me, successful and dedicated to his career. I was a witness on his investigation. I was the literal stereotype of starving artist and now that I was a witness, I was freeloading off him while I hid out.

  What a winner, I thought to myself. I knew my thoughts were headed down a nasty rabbit hole of self-loathing, but I couldn't stop it. I felt my skin getting hot and words muffled into unintelligible noise around me. I didn't belong here, and tonight was just a tease to me. I had nothing to offer Connor, much less hope for this scene of my own one day.

  I slipped down the hallway and found the bathroom. I locked the door behind me and leaned against the door. The homesickness and loneliness were usually something I pushed way down, something I could escape through my art and opera. But here, it grabbed me, mocked me. Tears filled my eyes and I grabbed a Kleenex, dabbing at my cheeks so my makeup wouldn't run. This house, this dinner, was more than I could take. Why would he spring this on me? What did it mean? I met his sister's family tonight. Why bring me here?

  I needed to leave. I'd make my excuses to Abby and Peter, feign a headache and get the hell out of there. I could drive and Connor could get a ride home.

  A quiet tap at the door had me jumping back. "Alabama? You okay?" Connor's voice broke through my frenzied thoughts.

  "Yup," I forced out. "I need to go back to your house. I've got a migraine coming on."

  "What? Emma, let me in, please, so we're not talking through the door."

  I unlocked the door and let him in. His size in the small bathroom made him seem suddenly much larger and the bathroom much smaller. "You have a headache?" He scanned my tear-stained face and his usually cool features softened at the sight of me. "Are you crying?"

  "What? No, no." I turned away and blotted my cheeks, but not fast enough. He turned me around and gently tilted my chin up to look at him.

  "Tell me what's really wrong." Hazel eyes probed mine, and I found it hard to look away. He looked so concerned, genuinely wanting to know.

  Swallowing, I paused before speaking. "I'm freaking out, Connor. I don't belong here. Your sister is amazing, and this is all so sweet and beautiful," gesturing wildly with my hand, "but I don't belong here. I'm part of your work, not your life, and I can just as easily get a pizza for dinner."

  "What are you talking about? I want you here...we're just having dinner."

  "I've never had a home or a family. I've never been a part of anything close to a nice family. I probably never will have anything like this. It just hurts to see it all play out so easily like this. Your sister and Peter. The babies. You're the uncle. This is just too much. I'll be okay at your house. I'll just drive back, and you can get a ride? Should just go back, get some work done." I mumbled. I looked down at my feet, my admission surprising me.

  He pressed two fingers to my lips, quieting me. "Em, I want you here, in a personal capacity." His expression was gentle, tender even.

  "What?"

  "You heard me. I want you here. You matter to me. I'm certain that I want you to know my sister and my brother-in-law and my niece and nephew. And I want them to know you," he whispered.

  "I'm just freaking out is all," I responded quietly.

  "You're somebody to me. You being here matters, Emma. I don't know what that means yet but I know enough that I want you here with me. I'll be by your side, hmm?" He stooped so that he could level his eyes with me, and I nodded, a smiling breaking out. He drew me close and pressed a chaste kiss to my forehead.

  The gesture was small and sweet. Nodding, I choked out, "Okay."

  We returned, where Abby was gracious enough not to mention my bolt from the table. Connor's hand found my leg under the table and squeezed reassuringly while he and Peter were engaged in their own conversation. His hand remained on my thigh the rest of dinner. Abby asked about my work at the gallery and seemed to take a genuine interest in my life here in Charleston. Thankfully, what she didn't ask about was my life growing up or where I was from or the investigation. She didn't ask any questions I didn't want to answer, but instead seemed to have a genuine interest in getting to know me. I suddenly felt like an asshole. I was awful at these things.

  I declined the second glass of wine Abby offered me as dinner was wrapping up. Connor interjected that we needed to get going and Abby hugged me goodbye and said that she hoped to see me again. I managed a whispered thanks to her, not wanting to appear rude, but the entire evening had been bittersweet. My heart was squeezing with loneliness and sorrow.

  "Thanks for coming," Connor said to me in the dark SUV as he reversed out of the driveway.

  "You should know I'm not good at things like this."

  "Emma. Come on. It wasn't a big deal. It was just my sister. She invited me and I said you were still at the house and she invited you too."

  "It was a huge deal!" I burst out, my voice getting shrill with emotion. "And it turns out I got the pity invite!"

  "You're taking it the wrong way."

  I groaned and let my head fall back against the seat. "A heads up would have been nice, is all."

  "We've both been holed up in that house. This was a perfect, safe opportunity to leave for a few hours."

  "You sprang this on me! You're hot one minute and cold the next minute. You say nice things and touch me and I don't know what it means and the next minute you're ignoring me for two days. And I can't survive dinner at your sister's."

  "Is it always just about survival for you?" His profile was dark in the SUV but I could still make out the set of his jaw.

  "When is it not about surviving? I don't have a salaried job, or a family. This is it for me. Of course, it's about survival."

  Connor's profile in the darkened vehicle was a mask of emotions that I couldn't read, but the tension between us was palpable. Outside the stars twinkled against a bright winter night but I couldn't appreciate
them with my own thoughts bouncing around so loudly in my head. We drove in a silence for a few minutes until I finally broke it, surprised with myself I wanted to tell him this piece of me. I wanted him to understand.

  "I'm not good with families."

  "I'm not following."

  "Because of what happened when I was seventeen," I said softly.

  "What do you mean? What happened?"

  I took a breath and thought back to that day, thankful for the darkness of the SUV giving me the shroud of protection so I didn't have to look him in the eyes. "I don't know how much you already knew when you did my background. I'm not a good person, Connor. I killed someone."

  Twenty-Five

  I first came to live with the Rysfords when I was twelve. It was my fourth foster home. I was never told why I had to move. A nice lady who turned out to be my social worker would show up and only tell me I was going to a new home. A new adventure, she called it. There was always a positive spin, but never an explanation for relocating me.

  The Rysfords lived in the country, with the nearest neighbors a good mile down the road. The house was a mess and needed repairs to the front porch, but I didn't really notice. I knew to avoid the loose boards and not lean on the railing.

  Greg Rysford was rarely home. He worked for the electric company in town and came home tired and short-tempered. I learned not to talk at dinner. Ms.Rysford—Eileen—was nice enough, but frazzled and busy around the house. She spent a lot of time in her room, in the dark because of her frequent headaches.

  I first noticed something off with T.R. when Chloe and I found a kitten. We gave our new furry friend name and made daily trips to the woods with milk and leftovers after dinner. One day we found the kitten dead, an arrow pierced through its body.

  I confronted T.R. about it. We ended up fighting, tumbling in the dirt. He easily pinned and punched me, cutting my lip. After that, T.R. frequently cornered and taunted me. "No one wants you," he'd snarl and hit me. Greg and Eileen probably knew, but nothing was ever said. T.R. made it clear that if I told anyone, he would hurt Chloe.