Marlow nodded brusquely with shiny brown hair. “Hello.”
Gil didn’t return the greeting. His muscles tensed as if ready to pummel them both into the concrete.
Officer Hoyt placed his badge back into his blazer pocket. “We would like to have a word with you.”
Gil threw me a look over his shoulder. He tried to make it seem exasperated and impatient, but I’d spent too much time with him. I’d learned how to read him again. I saw the truth.
In his gaze was pure terror and the undeniable desire to run.
I gave him a brave smile, very aware I couldn’t move. I wanted to tell him not to be afraid.
I’m sure it’s just routine.
He nodded slightly as if he’d heard my silent encouragement. Shifting the box to his other arm, he muttered to me, “Don’t move. I still need to take pictures.”
His lips thinned as he marched toward his car.
Terrible foreboding filled me.
Why did the police want to talk to him? As a consultant or because they had evidence—
They can’t have evidence because Gil didn’t do anything.
My heart fluttered as the police hunted Gil’s every step.
All I wanted to do was chase them to the curb and fight for his innocence.
Because he was innocent.
He’s not a killer.
Sweat prickled beneath my painted skin.
I’d been afraid. Afraid of falling for him. Afraid of being hurt. Afraid of what might happen. Now I was afraid they would take him and I’d never see him again.
The cops waited as Gil opened the back door and placed the box inside. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Clark.”
“What about?” Gil’s voice lost any sign of emotion. Cold and as clinical as ever. His form of armour against those he didn’t trust.
“Your paints match the paints used on the victims recently found.”
What?
Gil stayed unruffled. “That’s entirely possible. Not many stores stock paint safe enough for long exposure to the skin. There isn’t a large market to choose from. Even online choices are minimal.”
“That might be. But with you being a body painter and the murders heavily based on such a hobby, not to mention being committed within our city, we want you to come to the station for questioning.”
The other cop added, “Protocol, you see. Won’t take long.”
“If it’s merely protocol, ask me here. I have work to do.” Gil’s temper sliced through his coldness.
“We have an audience,” Officer Hoyt muttered. “Best to discuss such things in private, don’t you think?”
God, I wished I wasn’t stuck against this stupid letter.
I was seconds away from breaking posture and running to Gil’s side.
But Gil seemed to sense my rapidly fraying self-control as he raised his voice. “Don’t you dare move, Olin. I’m grabbing my camera.”
“Mr. Clark. We’ve asked you to come—”
“I’ve just spent four hours of my life painting this commission. I’m not walking away before taking photos that pay my bills.” A murmur from the crowd rose as Gil shoved past the cops and opened the boot. Reaching in, he pulled out his expensive camera.
The police followed him again but stayed quiet.
I had no choice but to stay locked in a colourful prison while Gil defied law enforcement and fiddled with the functions on his tools.
With an arrogant look, he stormed away from the police and angled the lens at me. He started snapping. One after another from where he stood, then more from across the street, then more to the sides, up close, front on, and every other angle applicable.
All I had to do was hold the pose that was crippling after so long.
I supposed he’d Photoshop out the crowd and other noise. He’d somehow make it seem as if I’d magically become one with the store logo—floating in the letters, defying all laws of gravity.
With every camera click, the police stalked him. Their patience slowly waning the longer he postponed their chat. He’d probably taken over a hundred pictures, and to them, it most likely seemed as if he delayed their conversation deliberately.
To me, I knew Gil would take a copious number of photos so he would have more than enough to turn in a great commission. He took no chances that the purchaser wouldn’t be happy and refuse to pay—especially on a job he hadn’t enjoyed doing.
Finally, one of the officers put their hand on his camera and forced him to lower it. I couldn’t hear what they said, but I didn’t need to.
The cop pointed at the official vehicle parked across the street. Hand gestures said they wanted him to go with them.
That they were done waiting.
Gil nodded sharply and turned off his camera. Walking with them, his steps were short and unwilling.
But he went.
He went because he had no choice.
With his hand on the roof of the cop car, he turned to look at me.
No.
Don’t go.
I no longer wanted him to cooperate. What if they pinned it all on him? What if he didn’t come back?
What if he’s the most talented liar in history and he did do it?
What happens if I’m in love with a killer and stupid enough not to see?
With a groan, I forced atrophied muscles to move and stumbled from the illusion that I was one with the logo. “Gil, don’t—”
He curled a hand around his mouth to amplify his voice. “Pack up my stuff. Do you have your license?”
I nodded, wanting to hug myself.
“Good. Drive back to the studio with my gear. The key to the warehouse is in the car.” His eyes remained unreadable, shoving me deeper into the cold. “I’ll see you later.”
The crowd murmured loudly. Rumours and questions. Side looks and suspicious glances.
I knew what they were thinking.
Was Gil the body painting murderer?
Was that why the police were taking him?
Arresting him?
I didn’t have time to reply before an officer opened the car door, motioned for him to slip inside, then slammed it closed.
Gil didn’t look back as they drove him away.
Chapter Thirty
______________________________
Olin
-The Present-
SOMEONE HAS BEEN in my apartment.
I froze, my key in hand, a foot across the threshold.
I didn’t know how I knew, but I knew.
Something was off. Something wasn’t right. Yet...nothing was missing.
Inching forward, I breathed shallowly as if monsters might hear and attack from behind cheap furniture. The kitchen still held the takeout containers from when Gil stayed over. The couch still decorated with his tossed-aside blanket. The dining room table still askew from our ruthless sex.
If someone had been here, surely something would’ve been moved?
I’m making stuff up.
No one had been here while Gil painted me on the street. No one had entered my privacy and sneaked around uninvited.
Only...
My eyes fell on a small ballerina figurine that was one of the few gifts my parents had ever given me. When they’d finally understood how serious I was about dance, they’d paid for my lessons but not bothered to take me.
I hadn’t cared.
I would’ve hitchhiked across town to dance, and the fact that they’d recognised that? It meant so much to me. And for them to give me a ballerina? Well, it was my most treasured belonging from them.
It normally sat beneath my TV by the remote.
Now, it stood in a perfect pirouette on my windowsill.
I froze.
Goosebumps shot down my arms.
Had Gil moved it?
Had I forgotten I did?
What the hell is going—
“Miss Moss. Is that you?” A strict voice wrenched the breath from my lungs and sent me whirling to face the door. A fist la
nded over my thudding heart as I tried to make sense of what I saw.
Two uniformed police stood framed in the open entrance.
Police I’d seen at Gil’s warehouse when I’d called and reported the guy with his kidnapping van.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” I asked, cursing how wavy my voice was.
The woman cop stepped into my apartment. I silently swore for leaving the door open. Her gaze skimmed over my still very green and camouflaged skin, mostly hidden beneath the thick, white robe. I’d obeyed Gil’s wishes and packed up his gear. I’d stored it in his car, told the Kohls manager Gil would be in touch with the photos and invoice, and climbed into his hatchback still fully painted.
I’d intended to drive to Gil’s place like he’d asked. I intended to shower, dress, and head downtown to where Gil had been taken.
But I’d never packed an overnight bag and left my previous outfit in the changing room. If I’d headed to Gil’s place, I would’ve ended up without clothes once I’d washed off his latest creation.
I’d only meant to pop home for five minutes.
I hadn’t expected to find the aura of evil still lurking in my safe zone. And I definitely hadn’t been prepared to find yet more police on my doorstep after watching Gil being carted away only an hour before.
It’s a busy day for them.
Appearing unannounced and ruining both our lives.
“We wanted to follow up with you about your report on the man who tried to kidnap you.”
“Oh.” I forced myself not to look at the clock with impatience. “Okay. What can I help you with?”
“The license plate number you gave us is incorrect.” The woman narrowed her eyes.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I must’ve remembered it wrong.”
“And you’re sure it was a white van with blue stripes?” The male officer came forward, encroaching on my space. “Because nothing checks out. No other reports. No suspicious sightings. It wasn’t another colour, and you remembered that wrong, too?”
Standing taller, I did my best to seem unfrazzled. My lack of lying ability almost crippled me. If I didn’t get them away soon, I’d slip. I’d stumble on a lie, and Gil would be sentenced to life because of something idiotic I said.
“No, I remember the van. But you’re right. I’m obviously not reliable in my recollections.” I crossed my arms. “Besides, you ought to know better than me. That’s your job, after all.”
The cops threw each other a glance.
The female officer sighed at my unhelpfulness. “Regardless, we believe the man who tried to abduct you might be involved with the recent murders.” She eyed up my body paint again. “They were painted...like you. We were hoping your memory might be better refreshed today. Give us new information that could aid us.”
“Better refreshed?”
“No audience, as it were.” Her gaze gleamed with an obvious hint. “Free to say what you want.”
“You think I kept things to myself because I was with Gilbert last time?”
“Speaking of Mr. Clark. Where is your boss?” the guy jumped in.
I narrowed my eyes, answering his question and ignoring the rest. “At Status Enterprises. Behind a desk.”
“Your other boss.” His voice tightened with frustration. “Gilbert Clark.”
What was the right answer here? Tell them I didn’t know or that he’d been shoved into a police car? Then again, I couldn’t exactly say I hadn’t seen him, seeing as I wore his brushstrokes. “We just finished a commission for Kohls department store. He was invited to help the police about the body paint used on the murdered girls.”
There, that sounded good and not guilty at all.
“Do you believe he could be involved?” The woman walked around me, her eyes never still as she took in my messy apartment.
“No.”
“How can you be so sure?” She circled me again, her buttons flashing on her uniform. “He’s a body painter—same as the murderer. He has no alibi for the days the girls went missing.”
I scowled. “How do you know he has no alibi?”
“We can’t disclose that information, miss,” the male cop muttered. “What we are interested in is your opinion. Can you shed any light on Mr. Clark’s recent whereabouts? Did he go missing for a time? Do anything out of the ordinary?”
My throat closed up.
He went missing.
He came back filthy, bloody, and speckled in paint.
He drank himself into a stupor for something he did.
My kneecaps danced with nerves as I stared him right in the eyes. “He’s my boss. What he does with his free time is none of my concern.”
The female cop smirked. “You entertain much, Olin?” She pointed at the two forks in the sink and the two glasses on the coffee table.
“None of your business.”
She smiled and didn’t reply.
I’d just walked into her trap, and I didn’t fully understand how.
“If that’s all...I really need to shower and—”
“How well do you know Gilbert Clark?” the female interrupted rudely.
I mulled over my answer. What would be better? Admit I was in love with him or lie and say our relationship was strictly professional.
My heart picked up its pace, drowning in fibs.
“Well?” She placed her hands on her hips. Somehow, I knew she waited to catch me in a lie. They’d found out where I lived without me telling them my address. They had records and ways of finding out stuff. That was their job—to uncover the truth.
Letting my arms drop, I allowed honesty to answer for me. “Gil and I go back to high-school—like I told you last time. We dated when we were younger.” Even I heard the historical pain in my voice as I added, “We broke up and went our separate ways. I found him again purely by chance, thanks to a job advertisement.” I held up my arm, revealing the green exoticness of my flesh. “A job to be a living canvas.”
“Interesting.” She nodded, her eyes gleaming. “And you can work together amicably after a teenage breakup?”
“It’s in the past. It means nothing.”
“How would you describe Gilbert Clark at school?” The man opened his notepad, a pen hovering over the pages. “Quiet? Hard-working? What was his family life like?”
Anger rose, followed swiftly by the undeniable need to protect Gil.
His family life would always work against him. Always make people judge—make them believe he was capable of atrocities because that was what he was born into.
“I think you should figure that out for yourself.” I nudged my chin at the door. “Now, if you don’t mind. I really must—”
“People change, Miss Moss.” The woman once again cut me off. “What you think you know about your high-school fling might be hiding the truth staring right in your face.”
I grimaced. “What exactly are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m just saying be careful.” For once, her eyes softened with kindness rather than condemning me with accusation. “Monsters walk amongst us. They wear the same skin. They just hide who they are. Almost like the paint that’s hiding you.”
She paused as if her speech was all I needed to confess everything.
I sniffed and waited out the silence.
“Okay, then.” The two officers moved toward the exit.
The male nodded and stepped into the hallway while the female paused and passed me her card again. “If you happen to recall the correct license plate or want to change your statement, call me.”
I took her card and shoved it deep into my robe’s pocket. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” With a smile I couldn’t decipher, she added, “I wouldn’t trust him, Miss Moss. A man who earns money by turning others into a chameleon might also be a chameleon himself. Three girls have lost their lives. Don’t lose yours, too.”
Chapter Thirty-One
______________________________
Gil
-The Past-
I’D BEEN LIVING in hell.
The past two days had torn out my heart and made me beg for a solution.
The breakup at school was meant to be fake, but somehow, it had become entirely too real. I needed to take it back. To explain. But the more time that passed, the more horrendously true it became.
“You’re never to speak to Olin again.”
Ms Tallup’s threat repeated incessantly in my brain.
That ultimatum was harder to swallow than knowing what she wanted from me. It made my stomach churn with corrosive acid; nervous anxiety wrapped a noose around my throat.
I had to talk to Olin.
I had to see her, touch her, love her.
If I couldn’t have Olin...shit, life wasn’t worth the pain it cost to live.
Despite Tallup’s threat, I’d stumbled over to Olin’s the moment I’d left school on Friday. I’d stood on her stoop with tears in my eyes and a broken fucking heart in my hands, trying to get up the guts to ring her doorbell and apologise.
To tell her everything.
To beg her to help me.
But she wasn’t home.
For the first time in a very time, I was alone and unwanted.
Not entirely true.
I was wanted.
Just by the devil in female clothing.
I’d lingered outside Olin’s place until hunger drove me away. I didn’t know who she’d turned to thanks to my betrayal, but I only hoped she was warm and safe.
Just knowing her future hung in the balance because of me and my actions forced my feet to carry me back to the hovel I was born in and tumble into a dirty bed.
That night, my dad beat me brutally—thanks to one of his bourbon-induced rages, and I spent Saturday nursing my wounds. Olin was once again somewhere else when I stumbled to her house in pain.
By Sunday, the bars of my prison had tightened so much, I couldn’t see any alternative.
I needed to talk to Olin desperately.
I couldn’t bear the thought of never sharing a conversation or having her hand touch mine again. I’d always kept my emotions locked away—better to seem heartless than weak—but where Olin was concerned, I was pathetic.
The Finished Masterpiece (Master of Trickery Book 3) Page 34