“David wants to meet with us at a coffee shop by the police station beforehand, but we still have plenty of time before we have to head that way. Why don’t we run by the gallery and see what we can find out about Mark? Maybe that’ll put you more at ease.”
“Yes,” I agree quickly. “I think that’s a good idea.” And it is a good idea, so why is my stomach suddenly twisting and turning?
“Ralph and Amanda are going to ask questions,” he warns.
“So are the police. It’ll be good practice, and I’ll feel better going to the station as knowledgeable as we can get.”
He gives me a keen inspection. “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m sure.” He doesn’t look convinced and my stomach gives an extra jolt. Some part of me doesn’t want to return to the gallery, and I don’t know why.
Like the thorns on the roses he loves to give me, I welcome the pain of the flogger biting into my back. It is the escape from all that I’ve lost, all that I’ve seen and done, and regret doing. He gives this to me. He is my drug. The pain is my drug. It ripples through me and I feel nothing but the bitter bite of leather and the sweet silk of the darkness and pleasure that follows.
Rebecca Mason
Three
I can’t tell if Ava’s coffee shop is open as we turn down the alleyway behind the gallery. I don’t know why I even care, but considering the way my stomach starts flip-flopping at the sight of the Cup O’ Café sign, I obviously do. Maybe it’s the reason some part of me didn’t want to come here—or rather, Ava is. She’s the reason we’re all living through hell. She’s the monster who murdered Rebecca and who almost put me in my own grave.
Fortunately, it’s only a few moments later that Chris parks the 911 in the lot behind the gallery and gives me other things to think about. “That’s Ralph’s car,” I say, indicating a black Camry, the only other car in the lot. “Amanda takes the bus, but any interns would park back here, as would any sales staff. I wonder who’s running this place in Mark’s absence?”
Chris shoves open his door and sets one booted foot on the pavement. “I’m guessing that with all that he has going on, your departure, and Mary in jail, there isn’t much to run. Blake says the gallery’s been closed to the public all week. Can you call the reception desk and see if they can let us in?”
I punch in the number and get the answering service. Chris walks around the Porsche and opens my door as I leave Ralph yet another message on his private line. “No luck,” I say, letting Chris help me out of the car. “Maybe my security code still works.”
Looking less than optimistic, Chris shoves the sleek black leather of his jacket aside, resting his hands on his hips. “Under normal circumstances, I’d say there’s no way in hell Mark would make that kind of a slip. But there’s nothing normal about any of this.”
A gust of cold wind blasts us and I huddle into my black trench coat. “I’m ready to be inside,” I exclaim, making a dash for the building. At the door Chris steps close, using his big body to block the wind, and I key in my code—to receive a beep of rejection.
“The front door it is,” Chris concludes, taking my elbow. “Hopefully we can flag someone through the glass.”
We cut down the side of the building, thankfully out of the torture of the wind, to find the Closed sign in the gallery window. There are no lights on the showroom floor or any sign of life, but I start knocking and Chris joins in.
After ten frustrating minutes I’m ready to give up, when I see Amanda dash through the gallery inside. I wait at the door to greet her and the instant it’s open, she flings her arms around my neck and bursts into tears.
I hug her, not sure what to make of the outburst. Amanda’s young and rather timid, but she’s never been overly dramatic or emotional. “What’s wrong, honey?” I ask, exchanging a concerned look with Chris.
Releasing me, she swipes at her damp cheeks. “Sorry. Just . . .” Hesitating, she seems to register something important. “Come inside,” she says, grabbing my hand and pulling me forward. “Before the press reappear and swarm us.”
I enter the showroom with Chris on my heels, and my stomach is remarkably calm. Amanda rushes to the door to lock up again, and when she faces us again, she’s a frazzled mess as she swipes her long dark hair from her face. “You have no idea how crazy it’s been. We need to move away from the front. The press take pictures from outside the window.” She rushes toward the back, and Chris and I fall in step behind her.
“I saw Ralph’s car,” I comment. “Is it just the two of you here?”
“Yes,” she confirms. “It’s been just us for the whole week.”
Chris moves ahead and holds the door to the offices open for us. “Has Mark been in at all?” he asks as she starts to pass him.
“No,” she says. “His mom got a blood infection from her cancer surgery. She’s better now, but it was bad, I think.”
Amanda enters the office area and I pause beside Chris, whose grim expression isn’t comforting. “You’ve heard of a blood infection like that before?”
“Yes. I’ve seen it a few times since I started volunteering at the Children’s Hospital. It’s never good.”
“How not good?”
“It’s always a fight for your life, with either full recovery or no recovery at all.”
“It sounds like she’s out of trouble, though, right?”
“The way it would have lowered her immune system, when she’s fighting cancer, could be an issue.”
“That sure explains Mark’s silence.”
He nods and we step into the U-shaped office to find Amanda hovering by the reception desk to our right. “Ralph!” she shouts. “Come out here!”
Ralph appears in the doorway of his office just off of the main lobby, and the minute he sees me his eyes light up. “Sara!” he exclaims, holding his hands out and rambling in what I think is Chinese, before he rushes forward and hugs me. “Please tell me that you’re here to help.”
I lean back to give him a critical eye, and nowhere is the Ralph I know. His thick dark hair is rumpled, his royal-blue trademark bow tie is falling off, his white shirt is wrinkled, and his dark-rimmed glasses are tilted. “This is a first,” I say.
His brow furrows. “I’ve hugged you before.”
“I mean the messy clothes and the Chinese. And why didn’t you return my calls?”
He scrubs his head. “My voice mail’s backed up. It’s been a bitch around here. We’re just trying to survive.”
“Tell them why you’re talking in Chinese,” Amanda encourages, but doesn’t give him time to reply. “When he talks to the press, he alternates between senseless fortune cookie sayings and Chinese.”
Ralph shrugs. “It makes them hang up.” He glances at Chris, his tone glowing with appreciation. “Hello, Mr. Merit. So nice to see you. I hope you didn’t come to pull your art, like others have. Of course, Ricco doesn’t count.”
“No,” Chris says, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I’m not pulling my art, but I do want to get this place up and running again. Ricco stopped by? He’s out of jail?”
“His attorney called,” Ralph explains. “I’m not sure where Ricco himself is. I can’t keep up with things here, let alone anything past our doors.”
Amanda drops dramatically into the chair behind the reception desk. “It’s been the worst week of my life.”
I frown, still focused on Ralph. “But Ricco didn’t have any work at the gallery. He pulled it all after Rebecca left.”
“I know,” Ralph confirms. “That’s what made the whole thing strange. His attorney didn’t seem to know the facts.”
“You said the press keeps calling?” Chris asks, and he’s obviously thinking what I am. That wasn’t Ricco’s attorney that called. It was a member of the press.
“And coming by,” Ralph adds. “Everyone wants to know about Mary being arrested for selling counterfeit art. Having our salesperson do such a thing doesn’t exactly instill confi
dence in the public. Having a famous artist like Ricco Alvarez help her? Even less. Our customers and the talent are both dropping like flies.”
“It’s the Rebecca questions that are the hardest for me,” Amanda adds. “The press is asking about her. They push hard, and even if Mark would let us talk about her, I really can’t. All I know is that she left and she’s supposed to return. I guess they think she was involved, too.”
Unbelievably, Mark has left them completely in the dark. “I know it’s hard,” I say. “Isn’t the phone set on the answering service? Why are you talking to reporters at all?”
“They trick us,” she replies. “They leave messages and pretend to be customers.”
This seems to confirm my suspicion that Ralph talked to a reporter, not Ricco’s attorney.
“Has Mark given you any idea when he’ll be able to return, or bring in help?” Chris asks.
Ralph snorts. “He’s not even returning our calls. We have to talk to Crystal Smith now.”
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“The name sounds remotely familiar,” Chris comments. “I think I might have talked to her regarding one of my auction items at some point.”
“I’d never heard of her before this week,” Amanda replies. “She’s the acting manager of Riptide while Mark’s mother is out sick. She’s the one who told us about the blood infection. He didn’t. The last thing Mark told us was to organize a grand reopening party, but Crystal told us not to.”
Chris scrubs his jaw, looking as puzzled as I feel. “She’s overriding Mark?”
“He doesn’t even let anyone else choose the coffee in this place,” I add.
“Exactly,” Ralph agrees. “King Bossman seems to be MIA. We have Queen Smith instead.”
Just how hard had the past week hit Mark?
Chris’s hand rests on the back of my neck. “Let’s go talk a minute.” He glances between Ralph and Amanda. “If you have any problems while we’re here, come get one of us. We’ll be in Sara’s office.”
He urges me forward, drawing my hand into his as he pulls me into my old office. Rebecca’s old office. I can smell her rose-scented candles that should long be faded, like a part of her lingers here.
“I’m concerned Mark’s mother is far worse than they know,” Chris says, after he shuts the door. “There’s no other explanation for him letting the gallery spin out of control like this.”
“That, and grief over Rebecca.”
“I’m not going to pretend to understand the relationship he had with Rebecca. The end result is the same, and it’s not good. This place is falling apart. I’m going to go to his office to look around.”
“I’ll call this Crystal Smith person.”
Pausing at the door, he glances at his watch. “We need to leave within a half hour for our meeting with David.”
I nod and he leaves, shutting me inside. Shrugging out of my coat, I toss it on the visitor’s chair and sit behind the desk, already reaching for the phone when my gaze catches on a painting to the right of the door. The brilliant painting of roses by local artist Georgia O’Nay is from Mark’s personal collection, chosen for Rebecca’s wall for reasons representing their Master and submissive bond.
Emotions swell in my chest and I force them aside, grabbing the phone and punching the auto-dial to Riptide. “I need to speak to Mark Compton,” I say when the receptionist answers.
“Just a moment,” the woman replies without hesitation, and I hold my breath, waiting for that steely, commanding voice of his, only to hear a female say, “This is Crystal Smith. Can I help you?”
Disappointment fills me. “Ms. Smith. Hi. This is Sara McMillan, and I—”
“Sara.” There is a lift to her voice that almost sounds like excitement, though I can’t understand how that could be. “Are you back in the States?”
“I . . . yes. You know who I am?”
“Of course. Though we didn’t work together directly, I was very aware of your replacing Rebecca and taking her role with Allure.”
Replacing Rebecca. The choice of words stabs me with such guilt that I slump forward and press my hand to my face. Replacing Rebecca. I took her life. I lived her life.
“Sorry,” she says softly, seeming to read my discomfort, or perhaps I’d been silent longer than I realized. “That was a poor choice of words.”
“You said nothing wrong,” I say, and it hits me that her sensitivity has to mean she knows more than the rest of the staff, but I’m afraid to say more and assume incorrectly. “The reason I’m calling is that I’m here at Allure. I’ve been trying to reach Mark and had hoped he’d be here.”
“He’s been by his mother’s side pretty much around the clock the past few days. She’s doing better now, but it was a rough ride.”
“So she’s okay?”
“As okay as someone battling stage-three cancer who just recovered from a blood infection can be.”
Recovered. That’s a good word. “Right. Of course. Do you know his plans here? He’s not even talking to the staff.”
“No.” She hesitates and there’s a weird tension in the air before she says, “I offered to switch places with him and run Allure while he’s here in New York, but I guess there are reasons he has to be there as well. He won’t really talk to me.”
“Mark doesn’t talk to anyone.”
“Yes. I can see that.” She hesitates again. “Look, Sara. I don’t want to pressure you. Actually”—she laughs awkwardly—“I really do want to pressure you. I know you quit the gallery, but will you please come back to work for a few weeks?”
I blink, confused. “Did Mark ask you to talk to me?”
“No. I meant it when I said he’s not talking to me.” There’s a strain in her voice that rings oddly personal, when Mark is personal with no one. But then, Mark is doing a lot of things I don’t expect this week. “Please help,” she adds. “He needs to heal and so does his mother.”
“How well do you know his mother?” I ask, curious about what feels more and more like her personal bond with the family.
“She hired me, and she’s—” her voice cracks—“she’s a special person. And a stubborn crazy woman when she wants to be. I have to handle everything well or she’ll be trying to work through her chemo treatments.
“Amanda and Ralph are in over their heads,” she continues, “and I’ve been handling all the angry artists, crazy reporters, and customers who insist on talking to management. I need help. I can’t run Riptide and Allure at the same time.”
Mark’s checked out. Totally, completely, checked out. His mother must be worse than we know. Maybe even worse than Crystal knows. “I can’t make any promises,” I hedge, wanting to help but unsure of what I can do with this investigation going on. “I have to go to a meeting. Do you have a number I can call you back at?”
“Of course, but Mark is headed out there tonight. We should talk before he arrives and come up with a plan that he’ll accept.”
So Mark isn’t just handing her the power. She’s taking it, and the two of us teaming up are destined to go toe-to-toe with Bossman in a big way before this is over. “I’ll call you back tonight,” I promise. “What time do you leave?” A knock sounds on my door and Ralph pokes his head in, holding up a newspaper.
“Let me give you my cell,” Crystal offers as he dashes to my desk, sets the paper down, and leaves again. “And I don’t care what time it is. Whatever works for you,” she adds, “I don’t sleep much anyway.”
We exchange numbers and end the call. Setting the phone back into the cradle, my gaze lands on the newspaper headlines Ralph obviously wanted me to see: Local Art Gallery Paints a Masterpiece of Scandal. I grab the paper and begin to read.
One employee is deep in the midst of a counterfeiting scandal, with renowned artist Ricco Alvarez her partner or perhaps the mastermind of her efforts, while another employee of the gallery is completely missing. Where is Rebecca Mason? Did she flee involvement in the scandal, or is she a victim of a da
rker, more menacing cover-up?
I quickly scan the article. There’s no mention of Ava at all, or of her attack on me. In fact, it’s a rather uninformed article that says little to nothing. But what breaks my heart is the photo of Rebecca. It’s the same shot of her that’s on the Allure website, her long brown hair shiny and sleek to her shoulders, a huge, happy smile on her face. She was so like Ella, young and just starting out in life, and now she is gone . . . like Ella. I’m afraid for Ella, and with each day that passes, I worry more that she will never return. I don’t want her to end up dead like Rebecca.
Dead. There is that word I’ve avoided and out of nowhere, it throws me into a memory I don’t want to relive. I’m back at the hospital after my mother’s heart attack, and I stand in the waiting room, waiting for the doctor. I can see the blue cloth seats lining the wall, hear the cartoons that some man has been watching for hours. There’s a woman with her knees to her chest in a seat in the corner, and some sort of flute music comes from the speakers. The doctor enters the room and all of us stand up, but his eyes are on me. His eyes are brown. His hair is black. He is pale as he walks toward me.
I’m sorry. We tried everything and she fought hard, but your mother didn’t make it.
My eyes burn with a memory I haven’t relived so completely in years, and suddenly the sweetness of the rose scent clinging to the room is overwhelming, and I feel like I’m about to be sick. I grab the trash can, desperately willing the sickness to pass. What’s wrong with me? I never get sick.
The door opens, and I don’t have to look up to know it’s Chris. Even like this, I feel that current that he brings with him into a room, but I can’t seem to lift my head.
He kneels beside me and his hand settles on my knee, feeling warm and deeply right. “Hey,” he murmurs softly. “What happened, baby? Are you okay? Talk to me.”
Talk to me. He says that often, and I like that. I like that he listens to me and he cares. He’s so a part of me that I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him, like my mother. Like I fear I’ve lost Ella.
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