Turns out Casey was classmates with Rachel Krell at law school, a fact I learned when we met and I revealed the chain of events that led me to seek legal counsel. Sitting as I am now in her passenger seat, that chain of events feels locked around my wrists.
The neighborhood streets are lined with sidewalks, and small but meticulously renovated Craftsman houses. Casey pulls up in front of Krell’s compact contemporary, where the lawn has been replaced with a drought-tolerant display of plump succulents and silver-gray lavender.
“Remember, stick to the facts,” Casey says. “No commentary, no why-you-did-this-or-that.”
“Right.”
She releases her seat belt, but I can’t seem to move my hands.
“I know you’re nervous,” she says, “but you’re doing the right thing.”
“What if I end up going to jail?”
“Then I will get you out as fast as I can.”
Krell opens the door, and his face pinches when he sees me. “Casey, Ms. Reyes.”
I grip the shoulder strap on my bag tighter, unnerved by his red eyes and bent head. What happened to the man whose posture was defined by arrogance?
“I wouldn’t disturb you, Collin, but Sabine believes she has information that can help shed light on the events at Art Basel Miami.”
Doubt deadens his voice. “Come in, by all means.”
We walk through a sunlit living room. It’s like stepping into a minimalist canvas, the dove-gray walls and couch the color of pencil lead punctuated by spots of color: a fluffy white area rug, a sea-blue vase, a copper bowl.
Rachel joins us at a long table. Makeup-less, her eyes are small and unremarkable, except for the suspicion glittering in them.
Krell offers us coffee, but we say no. He and his wife link hands, and I force myself to make eye contact with them. It’s almost unbearable seeing what I’ve threatened: the happy family, the cozy house.
Casey taps my hand. Go ahead. Tell him.
I try, but the truth is a wad of wet paper in my throat. My mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. When Rachel can’t stand it anymore, she gets up and brings me a glass of water, and I gulp the whole thing.
I dab a last drop from my lips. “The painting in Miami wasn’t Duncan; it was a copy.”
Krell looks right at me; he believes me.
“That’s impossible,” Rachel says. “Collin never shows his work in progress to anyone before it’s done.”
Krell ignores her. “How?” he says, meaning how do I know.
“Because I painted it.”
Rachel gapes at me like she can’t believe I said this, but Krell nods and starts to smile. “I knew it. I knew something was off the night it was unveiled, but I told myself I was imagining it.”
“How could you?” Rachel says to Krell. “How could you show her Duncan when you wouldn’t show me?”
“I didn’t show her!” Krell says, but I see in Rachel’s eyes that she doesn’t believe him.
“It’s true,” I tell her. “He didn’t know I saw it.”
Rachel rises out of her chair and slams her hands on the table, and I jerk back as Casey leans forward to block her. “You entered his studio without permission!” Rachel cries. “You forged his painting!”
Casey squeezes my hand, and in a very quiet voice says, “Let’s all take a breath, why don’t we, and process what we’ve heard.”
Rachel eases back into her seat, but her eyes are narrowed on me like a cat about to pounce. Krell lays his hand over hers, but she pulls her hand into a fist, and I sense she’s about to fire questions at me when Benny lets out a cry that sends her down the hall.
When she’s gone Krell says, “Why did you do it, Sabine?”
I’m not sure I know why anymore, and I stick to the most basic facts. “You advised me to find a painting I connected with and you said I should transcribe it.”
His expression shifts as he moves from confusion to disbelief to tamped-down anger. “As I recall that particular conversation, I told you to visit a museum or gallery….”
“Yes, that’s true, you did….”
“You broke into my studio.”
“No, I did not break in.” I open my sketch pad to the drawing of Adam. “This man let me in.”
“Who is he? One of the janitorial staff?”
“You don’t recognize him?” Casey says.
“No.”
My heart sinks. “Are you sure? I thought he might have been one of your students when you taught at UCLA.”
“No, not that I recall, and my studio classes were small enough that I would remember.”
I can’t believe Krell doesn’t know who he is. It makes no sense.
“Collin, we believe this man stole the original Duncan and substituted Sabine’s copy before the painting was shipped to Miami. We also believe he either vandalized the copy or hired the person who did,” Casey says.
“So he’s an art thief. Doesn’t the FBI have files on art thieves?”
“Consider the evidence. He didn’t quietly disappear with the original. He orchestrated a stunt to wound you personally.”
Krell picks up the sketch and squints at it. He covers the bottom half of Adam’s face with his hand, then the top, then covers the hair. “What’s his name?”
“He called himself Adam,” I answer. “He said he was a grad student and he talked about you like he’d taken classes from you.”
Krell gets up, and when he returns, he’s carrying charcoal pencils and a large sketch pad. The room goes quiet as he begins to draw, working from my sketch. The only sounds are the scratching of the charcoal on the paper, Rachel murmuring to Benny in a nearby room, and the rhythmic thud of a rocking chair.
Krell goes back and forth between my sketch of Adam and his own, roughing in the face and head. But then he draws dreads sprouting from Adam’s head and hides his cleft chin beneath a short beard, There’s no zigzag scar through his brow. The nose and mouth are Adam’s, but when Krell draws the eyes, they are wide-open, the irises huge and the whites shocking.
It’s not Adam, but the similarity is disturbing.
Casey signals me with her eyes to keep quiet as Krell sets down the charcoal. His face is tense as he quietly says, “Rachel, can you come here a second?”
When she comes to the table, Benny is in her arms. Krell flips the sketch around so she can see it, and she gasps. “It’s that boy.”
Krell nods. “Aiden Bellasco.”
Rachel falls into the chair next to him. She lays her head on his shoulder and whispers, “It wasn’t your fault.”
I huddle in my chair as tragedy settles like dust over the room. I’m unsure how all the pieces fit together yet, but I know deep inside that Adam must have loved Aiden to be so angry with Krell.
“Who was he?” Casey asks.
“He was my student,” Krell answers. His face is anguished as he tells the story of a young man who was struggling. Although he was immensely talented, his behavior became increasingly erratic. Krell can barely look at us as he says, “I encouraged him to take a leave of absence so he could get the help he needed, but not long after, he jumped off the roof of the CALINVA building.”
None of us says a word. We can’t.
I picture Aiden hitting the pavement and I’m swamped with a feeling of sorrow. He must have been in such pain to make the choice he did.
And Adam…he must have been so angry. Of course he’d blame Krell for Aiden’s death. Why wouldn’t he when Aiden’s own classmates were so sure it was Krell’s fault?
Benny waves his tiny hands and Krell holds out a finger for him to clasp. I believe Krell was telling the truth when he told us how he tried to help Aiden.
But Adam didn’t see this…or he couldn’t see it.
Casey’s the first to speak. “Given the family resemblance, it’s likely that ‘Adam’ is a relative, a brother or a cousin. Your lawyer will want to inform the authorities.” She pushes back her chair as if we’re done here, but Rachel
holds up a hand to stop her.
“Not so fast. I have some questions,” she says, turning steely eyes on me. How did I meet Adam? How did I end up in her husband’s studio? Did Adam offer me money? Did I know what he intended to do with my copy?
I clutch my chair, barely holding on against the barrage. So when Rachel demands to know why I didn’t come forward sooner, I snap back at her, “I was afraid. I thought I’d go to jail!”
“Jail’s exactly where you should be,” she throws back. “How can you live with yourself?”
I glance at Casey. Please get us out of here.
“Rachel,” Krell says softly. “She didn’t have to help us.”
“She hurt you! She hurt us!”
Casey signals to me to get up. “We should go,” she says to the Krells. “I expect you’ll want to relay this information to the investigators on the case. Sabine’s provided me additional information that may help the search.”
Rachel glares as Krell walks us to the door. He offers me his hand. “Thank you for coming forward, Sabine.”
“I’m sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen.”
“Yes, I can’t imagine you did,” he says, and shuts the door behind us.
Once Casey and I are buckled inside her car, I lean my head against the window. “Rachel Krell’s going to make sure I’m kicked out of school.”
“Probably, but it’s the end of the semester. They might let you finish.” Casey pulls away from the curb. “As information about the forgery and the theft leaks out, and it will, rumors will start flying. You don’t want your face all over social media, so be careful who you talk to, and no press.”
“Okay. I got it.”
“I’ll try and work a deal: your testimony for immunity from prosecution.”
“Thank you, Casey.”
She lists a dozen other things she’ll do to keep me safe, but I barely follow what she’s saying.
The streets go by, tiny green lawns lush under sprinklers. Big wreaths with gold or red velvet bows hang from doors that never see snow. Christmas is out of place in LA.
“I need to warn you,” Casey says as we near Mrs. Mednikov’s, “the board will probably pull your painting from the auction.”
“No, why?”
“We can’t expose a donor to the scandal that will be attached to it.”
“Great. Another shining example of how everything I touch turns to shit.”
Casey lets that go by.
“Sorry,” I say.
She bends her head toward me and takes her eyes off the road for a moment. “The people I defend…their lives implode even if they’re innocent. The ones who rise from the ashes are those who find a new purpose. You can have a satisfying life post-CALINVA, but it won’t be the one you imagined.”
“Are you saying I should give up painting?”
“Not at all. But think about what art and being an artist mean to you as you go forward.”
She pulls up in front of my house and my landlady is pruning her roses with a huge pair of shears. Mrs. Mednikov looks up as I get out, and at first she smiles, but then her lips part as if she sees the bad news wafting off me.
Mrs. Mednikov’s elbows rest on the kitchen table, her hands locked as if she’s praying. Our cups of tea sit between us, untouched. She’s been silent through most of my confession, barely looking at me, her fingers splayed over her mouth.
“I can be out of here today,” I say.
“And then what? You will sleep in your car?” she snaps.
I pick at the chipped polish on my thumb. Mrs. Mednikov’s known about me this whole time, but she’s been too kind to say anything. “I could stay with a friend.”
“Your rent is paid! You will not go anywhere tonight.” She mutters angrily in Russian, and my stomach clenches.
Mrs. Mednikov stands and snatches our cups off the table.
“I can wash them,” I offer, but she turns her back on me. “No, I do not need your help,” she says, and dumps the cold tea in the sink.
She scours the cups, and I slip out to the sunporch, sensing she can’t bear to be near me right now. I sit motionless in the creaky wicker chair until I hear her leave the kitchen.
She doesn’t have to say it, but I’ve disappointed her, and that’s way worse than making her angry.
I see Mom pacing our apartment after Nordstrom’s security made her come and pick me up the time Hayley and I tried shoplifting. She won’t speak to me, or even look at me, and I hear myself trying to apologize over and over while Mom holds up her hand to stop. And finally she can’t hold it in any longer and yells, “I don’t care if you’re sorry. Did you learn anything from this? Have you changed?”
Now the question sifts through me. Yes, Mom, I’ve changed. I was a house on fire, now I’m burned to the ground.
I’ve torched most, maybe all, of my relationships, and if I’m lucky, I’ll have a chance to earn back some of them. Might as well start now, I think, and tap out a message to Kevin and Taysha.
IT’S DONE.
Taysha’s comes charging back. R U OK?
DRAINED, I answer.
TELL ME EVERYTHING.
TOMORROW OK?
I carry my phone into my bedroom and lay it beside my bed. I curl up, not expecting to sleep, but sleep drags me down to the bottom of the ocean. And nothing and no one comes to pull me out.
I don’t hear from CALINVA during the weekend, so I assume it’s like Casey said and they’re letting me finish the semester. Two exams and I’ll be done, so I cram for both of them every free moment I’m not working.
A security guard intercepts me in the lobby on the way to my first exam. Heads turn and I feel dozens of eyes trained on my back as he escorts me to the administration office.
The president’s door is closed, but Mona takes me right in, and who’s sitting on the couch inside but Rachel Krell, one leg crossed over the other. She’s fierce, dressed like she’s going to court. She glares at me, refusing to say hello.
The air is whooshing in my ears, so I can barely hear the president when she asks if what Rachel Krell has told her is true.
I nod yes, certain that my silence is the only force holding back Rachel’s anger.
The president hands me a letter, but I can’t read what’s below the CALINVA letterhead because the small black type swims like guppies. “This terminates you from the program, and this,” she says, handing me a second letter, “cancels your scholarship.”
This must have been what Rachel Krell was waiting for: to see my face as I lose what I value most, because she gets up and leaves.
Strangely, the loss doesn’t hurt the way I thought it would. I’ve been released from my body, and I float over the scene, taking it in but not feeling it.
The president walks through specifics, noting that it is unclear if I’ll get credit for my classes since I left before the instructors turned in the grades.
I sign a document promising not to give interviews or discuss CALINVA or the Zoich on social media, and in return, they agree not to comment publicly about my part in the crime. I turn over my ID card and the guard escorts me from the building.
I plunk myself down on a cement planter not far from the entrance to wait for the airy feeling in my head to dissolve. My first and last semester at CALINVA is over.
My hands are ice, and I raise my face to the sun. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change… I picture Mom with her hand resting on her wrist, and for the first time, I understand why blowing out the candles on those stupid cupcakes was so important to her.
My wrist is white and blank, a perfect canvas. I trace the blue veins with my finger. “Serenity” was Mom’s guiding light, but there’s got to be a word that can be mine.
Despite CALINVA’s official promise of silence, my fellow students are all too eager to share the rumors about what I did. By noon a pic of me wearing Taysha’s leather flapper dress is everywhere, and I’m the talented but pathetically gullible art stu
dent linked to the scandalous desecration and theft of a contemporary masterwork.
That a lot of what they’re saying about me is true doesn’t make it easier to handle. The only thing that makes it bearable is that Kevin’s meeting me in the park during a break from his physics study group.
The park isn’t crowded even though it’s lunchtime and the sun is warm. Lawn bowlers cluster outside their tiny clubhouse, the light bouncing off their immaculate white sweaters and pants, while only a few yards away, the blanketed forms of sleeping men and women form gray islands on the thin grass.
I scan the benches and picnic tables under the palm trees and magnolias for Kevin. I spy him before he sees me.
His red mountain bike leans against a picnic table and he’s sitting on top. His back is turned, but even from across the street, I see his foot tapping along to music that must be coming through his earphones.
He’s bent forward, and his elbows rest on his jeans. I keep walking until I can see his profile. Look up, Kev. Look up.
I could call to him, but I hold off because I need to see him look for me. If he stands up and waves, everything will be fine.
But I’m right in front of him before he finally sees me, and I stop a few feet away, expecting him to smile or step off the table and maybe not wrap me in his arms, but at least close the gap between us.
He seems to know what I am hoping for, because he barely glances at me as he pulls out his earphones and shoves them in his hoodie pocket. “You okay?” he says.
I sit down next to him, avoiding a sticky spot rimmed with pollen. “I’ll survive. Casey Stiner thinks she can keep me out of jail.”
“That’s good.”
“It’s probably better than I deserve.”
He doesn’t contradict me; in fact, he doesn’t say anything, and I squirm in his silence. “I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry for a lot of things, actually.”
Kevin still won’t look at me. His eyes are locked on a bald patch in the grass as if it’s the only safe place around. When he does speak, his voice is hoarse. “I care about you, Sabine, more than I’ve cared about anyone in a long time, but I can’t trust you.”
What I Want You to See Page 27