The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1)

by Olivia Wildenstein

  Herrick pushes out of his chair and heads in the direction Kevin disappeared in.

  “O-kay? Did I say something?” she asks, taking a huge gulp of her drink. Some of it dribbles down her chin.

  “Chase, can I talk to you a sec?” I ask.

  Lincoln waggles her dark brows.

  “I’m good here,” he says.

  “Ouch,” Lincoln says.

  I try to catch his attention, but he’s purposely looking away.

  “By the way”—Lincoln raises her glass—“I heard we have something to celebrate.” I think she’s about to mention Chase’s birthday, which I’m not in the mood to celebrate, when she says, “To your big sale!”

  “What big sale?” Chase asks.

  “Oh…you didn’t hear? Your brother bought the piece she made today. For a lot of money,” she adds, with a sly grin. She knocks back her drink. “Ivy, why aren’t you drinking?” Her voice is really loud, and in spite of the music blasting out of the loudspeakers dotting the beach, some people have turned to stare. “One teeny sip. Come on, Redd. Don’t leave me hanging.”

  I pick up the glass. Instead of taking a sip, I down the entire thing. Just to get her off my case.

  “Good girl,” she says.

  The second the alcohol hits my empty stomach, I feel it bubble in my veins, irrigate my organs, and froth upward. I grab the salty pancake and stuff it inside my mouth, barely chewing it. My head spins a little and my face feels bloated. I touch it to make sure it isn’t. Maybe I’m having an allergic reaction. Maybe—

  The drink rises. I fling myself away from the table and cross the beach toward the port-o-potties. I’m going to throw up any second. I focus on keeping my lips sealed so I don’t spout vomit. I try the first door but it’s locked. The second door opens. I just have time to kneel before my stomach drains itself. Tears surge up and drip down my cheeks, plopping inside the toilet bowl. I’m not sure if I’m crying because I threw up or because of my sister’s crime.

  When I feel steady enough, I get up and wobble over to the glass sink. I rinse my mouth and splash cool water over my face. I take one last gulp of tap water, spit it out, then leave. I don’t want to return to the table, so I wander away from the festivities. I hear hushed voices nearby belonging to two dark bodies pressed against each other. One is unmistakable—Brook—the other is a woman in black lace. Madame Babanina, the notorious divorcée. I scurry away before either of them can spot me and run smack into Chase, who steadies me. Before he can talk and have us discovered, I place my finger against my lips, point to the couple behind me, and walk to the water’s edge, my footsteps muffled by the soft sand.

  “Ivy?”

  I turn around, surprised that Chase followed me.

  “Why are you talking to me?” A gust of wind kicks up my hair and swirls it. “I thought I was a bitch.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you were thinking it.”

  “You have no idea what I was thinking.”

  I take a small step into the water, not bothering to lift my flowy skirt. It’s cool and prickles my ankles. “Kevin was outside my tent last night. Apparently, you saw him.”

  “I did.”

  “Then why am I the bad one?” I ask him.

  Chase’s eyes gleam, dark and shiny like the ocean. “He didn’t come to see you. He came to see me.”

  “You? Why?”

  Chase stares at me long and hard, as though trying to decide whether to confide in me. “He’s…confused.”

  “About how to kill me?” I say with a snort.

  “About how he feels about men.”

  My stomach, which is still unsettled, now feels as though it’s been sucker-punched. “Oh.” As I attempt to link the beefy sergeant to his sexuality, I ask, “Why didn’t he go see Herrick then?”

  “Were you attracted to J.J.?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he’s not attracted to every man either.”

  “He has feelings for you?”

  “I know, right? Unbelievable…someone actually has feelings for me.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “It’s fine,” he says. “But we’re unfortunately not wired to automatically return an admirer’s affection, so I had to turn him down. I promised to keep his secret, though.”

  “Yet you told me…”

  “So you’d stop hating him. He’s not a bad guy, Ivy.”

  “He hasn’t been very nice to me,” I say.

  “And you haven’t been very nice to him. Now, you can start being nicer.”

  “But Lincoln told me—”

  “Don’t listen to her. Listen to me.”

  I’m not sure whether I should listen to anyone. “Why was he crying?”

  “I think it has to do with those pictures.”

  A high-pitch screech makes my heart pitch. I spin around and notice that people have jumped into the water and are squealing with delight. I feel a hand close over mine and tug on my fingers.

  “Swim with me?” Chase says.

  “I—I, uh…don’t know how to swim.”

  “You don’t?” When I stay mute, he adds, “Is that why you didn’t want to go inside Brook’s pool?”

  I nod.

  He smiles. He’s very handsome when he smiles.

  “I can teach you.”

  I swallow. “I don’t feel like learning tonight.”

  “Then let’s not swim. But let’s go in a little deeper.”

  “What if a wave knocks me over?”

  “I’ll catch you,” he says softly.

  Perhaps it would help me get over what happened to Mom. “Okay.” When my skirt floats up around me, I stop. “That’s far enough.”

  His eyebrows quirk up.

  “Don’t swim away, okay?”

  “I won’t,” he says, inspecting my face. He must notice the tension thrashing inside of me, because he adds, “There’s a simple way of keeping me close.”

  Even though the water’s cold, I can’t feel it. The only thing I can feel is an increasing amount of blood pumping through my body. “Promising to let you win?”

  “Not everything is about this competition.” With his free hand, he touches my jaw, brushes his palm over my cheek, runs a finger along the ridge of my creased brow, and then he inches closer to me and moves his mouth over mine. His lips are soft and warm, as soft and warm as his hands that he’s wrapped around my waist. As he nudges my mouth open, one of his hands travels up my spine, while the other pulls me closer. When his tongue touches mine, tremors and tingles explode everywhere in my body.

  “We shouldn’t,” I whisper into his mouth, before pulling away.

  “Why?”

  “Because. There are a lot of people around. And cameras. And—”

  He kisses me again.

  I press him back. “Chase, I’m serious.”

  He frowns this time.

  “People will gossip,” I say.

  “Let them.”

  “But—”

  “Ivy, in four days, all of these people”—he motions to the big top—“will be gone.”

  “And so will one of us.” My voice is muffled by an explosion overhead.

  The fireworks have started. Is it already midnight? The sky glistens white and blue and gold.

  “It’s your birthday. You should go celebrate,” I say, stroking the foamy surface of the water.

  “I am celebrating. By being with you,” he whispers. His breath is warm and makes goose bumps appear along my lobe and jaw.

  “I thought you didn’t like me.”

  “Well, you thought wrong.”

  My pulse pounds in my ears, rivaling the multicolored thunder overhead.

  Suddenly a loud “Happy Birthday” chant erupts from the speakers and a spotlight falls over us. I spring away from him, but he reins me in.

  “Stay with me,” he whispers.

  So I do. Because it’s his birthday, and because I like the feel of his arm wrapped around my wa
ist. But then I spot something behind him, a shape floating on the inky surface, a human shape, face down, moonlit and motionless. I tear my hand out of Chase’s and fling myself into the cold surf, my arms cutting through the water.

  I’m the first to reach the body.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Aster

  I gasp awake and press a clammy palm against my lungs. It was just a nightmare…just a nightmare. As I spot Celia trundling inside the padded cell, I recall the horrid dream. I was in a water tank with no air, and this dead body was floating next to me with shimmery straight teeth and long blonde hair twisting like seaweed. At first, I thought it was Ivy, but then I saw my sister standing just outside the tank, sad but resigned, mouth opening and closing as though trying to tell me something. Something I couldn’t make out. I force the nightmare into a dusky recess of my mind, but it clings to me like an insect trapped in jam.

  “I’m taking Miss Redd back to the infirmary.” Celia hoists me up. She’s breathless, and a rivulet of sweat snakes down her neck between her large breasts.

  Officer Landry rubs his eyes, which makes me think he was on duty all night.

  “You’ll never believe what happened,” she whispers as we walk past him.

  “Has there been a breakout?” Officer Landry blinks rapidly and repeatedly, like a caffeine addict before their first morning cup.

  Nurse Celia flaps her hand at him. “No, no. Settle down. There’s a world outside prison, you know?”

  He stops blinking.

  It takes me a second to get my bearings. As she leads me back to her blindingly white office, yesterday dribbles back into my muddled brain.

  She orders me to lie down on the exam table. “Last night, during the fireworks, Martin was found dead.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Kevin. You know, on the Masterpiecers! He drowned! Can you believe it? I can’t. It’s chaos in New York, and it’s all over the news, and when I stopped by Starbucks this morning, everyone was talking about it. It’s crazy. Pure insanity.” She has her hand over her heart as though trying to squish her excitement.

  My own heart is bouncing inside its cavity, not from excitement, but from dread. And from the nightmare that still feels too real. “Was he killed?” I think of those forms my sister made me sign before leaving. Perhaps the show is dangerous.

  “Oh, no. No foul play. He committed suicide. Apparently he was crying most of the night. Can you believe it?” she asks me again.

  I shiver, which makes my dreadlocks tickle my shoulder blades.

  “That photographer on the show…what’s his name…you know, the famous one? Anyway he snapped some pictures of the evening and he caught one of Kevin running into the water.”

  “Didn’t he know how to swim?” I ask.

  “Are there soldiers who don’t know how to swim?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Landry?” she says loudly, spinning around. “Are there soldiers who don’t know how to swim?”

  “It’s not a requirement to join the army, ma’am, but usually people are taught during training.”

  Then she asks, “What are you still doing here?”

  “Uh…I’m waiting to take Inmate Redd back.”

  “That won’t be for a while. I need to run some blood pressure tests and monitor her temperature. And then Robyn wants to see her.”

  “I’ll wait outside then.”

  “No, no. Just go. I’m sure you have better things to do. Wouldn’t want Driscoll to get his panties in a twist, now would we?” She flashes him a brazen smile, which deepens the small lines on the outer corner of her eyes.

  After he nods, she shuts the door and locks it. Then she goes to her desk, yanks her laptop out of her slouchy bag.

  “I’ll show you,” she whispers, putting on her yellow glasses.

  As she clicks here and there, she rambles on, “Barely slept all night I was so darn agitated. I think it’s because it feels like I know one of the contestants personally this year. What with Ivy being your identical twin and all.”

  Just as she mentions Ivy, a picture of her appears: she’s standing alone, on the beach, her profile illuminated by a burst of firework. Her dress is entirely transparent, and her blonde hair is pasted to her forehead and breasts.

  Nurse Celia clicks through the rest of the pictures available on the website. One of them makes me grip her wrist to stop her from snapping to the next. I let go right away.

  “Could you zoom in?” I ask.

  She does. Two darkened figures stand by the water line.

  “Who’s that?” she asks.

  “My new lawyer.”

  “He’s dreamy. Is he single?”

  “I don’t know.” But he’s a good two decades younger than you.

  Someone knuckles the door. It makes us both jump. Nurse Celia shuts her laptop and leaps off the exam table. “One second,” she yells, grabbing some keys from her bag and unlocking one of the closets. She grabs her lab coat off a hanger and throws it on before opening up. “Oh. It’s you. You don’t take orders real well, now do you?” She snaps the press-studs of her white coat closed. “Aster’s not ready.”

  She’s about to shut the door in Driscoll’s red face, but he presses it open and barges in. “She has a visitor.”

  “Who?”

  “Her lawyer.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t think that concerns you, Celia.”

  Celia folds her arms in front of her chest.

  The sergeant’s gaze travels to the crest of her bosom and lingers there. “Is she well enough to see him?”

  She turns toward me. “Aster, you well enough to see your lawyer?”

  “Yes,” I say, hopping off the exam table.

  “Okay then.” She snatches the keys off her desk and walks over to me, extending her arm. “Lean on me, okay?” Even though I don’t feel the need for a crutch, I hang on.

  “Where are you going?” Driscoll asks Celia, as we step out of the office.

  “I’m walking her to the attorney visitation area,” she says, locking her door.

  “That’s my job.”

  “She’s my patient,” Celia counters, even though I doubt that’s the reason she’s accompanying me.

  “You are impossible,” he grumbles, tailing us down the hallway.

  “Don’t you have some young guard to annoy?”

  “I’m training him.”

  “He’s not a dog,” she says. “Then again, that’s how you treat everyone.”

  Ouch.

  “Don’t you go pretending you’re some saint, ’cause you’re not, Cee! Saints don’t sock their boyfriends with their keys.” He’s pointing to the scar on his eyebrow.

  She whirls around, jerking me with her. “You got blown by a fucking convict while we were dating,” she hisses. “You deserved it!” Then she spins back and marches me down the hallway. “Sorry, Aster. Didn’t mean to stick you in the middle. Men are such a-holes.”

  Dean’s already inside the visitation room. He’s looking over some papers and drumming his fingers against the desk. When the door clicks open, he looks up. His eyes travel first to me, then to the nurse’s flushed face. He stands up, extends his hand, and introduces himself. Celia does the same.

  “Nurse?” He raises an eyebrow. “What happened?”

  “An incident. Terrible what these girls do to each other in here. Just terrible.” Obviously, she’s decided not to believe in the accident theory.

  “What did they do?” he asks.

  Celia’s shaking her head; her short hair wisps around her heart-shaped face. “Locked her in the freezer for hours.”

  I shrug away from Celia. “Why did you go to New York?” I ask, redirecting the conversation.

  He gestures to the table. “Let’s sit. Celia”—he fishes a business card from his pebbled black wallet and gives it to her—“it was a pleasure meeting you. Can you keep me informed of any more incidents?”

  Celia smiles widely, t
akes the card, and slips it into her lab coat’s breast pocket. He’s going to regret giving it to her. “Of course. You can count on me. I’ll leave you two to it. Aster, come see me after your appointment with Robyn…to run all your tests.”

  When she leaves, Dean and I both sit. I knot my fingers together on the table. “What were you doing in New York?”

  “I went to see Kevin and his lawyer.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I heard. Suicide.” There’s no emotion in his voice.

  “Why?”

  “His wife claims it resulted from his PTSD.”

  “It’s crazy. Just yesterday he was threatening Ivy and now…now he’s gone. Is she okay?”

  “Who? His wife?”

  “No. My sister.”

  He shrugs. “She seemed all right. Maybe a little shaken, but considering she’s the one who fished him out, it’s understandable.”

  My water nightmare. I dreamt of drowning because of Ivy. They say that one twin is the receiver and the other, the transmitter. I’ve always felt Ivy’s fears, joys, melancholy, but she’s never sensed mine.

  “I updated her about your case,” Dean’s saying. He plays with his tie. Today, it’s sky blue with geometric motifs. “What was inside the quilt, Aster?”

  “Inside?” I whisper, my voice catching. “Inside what quilt?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. Your sister told me the quilt you stole from Troy Mann is the one that ended up on the show. I know you didn’t destroy it.”

  “I-I…”

  “She also told me there was a tear in it, which I assume was used as a makeshift pocket to transport something. Now the question is, what?”

  I look down at my overlapping fingers. I’m squeezing them so hard, the tips are red and the knuckles are white.

  “Any ideas?”

  I shake my head.

  “You were the first person to handle it after Troy Mann,” he says.

  “There was no tear when I had it.”

  Dean watches me for so long that I shift in my seat.

  “I have to go meet with the prison psychologist now,” I tell him.

  He sighs. “Fine. Don’t answer. You’re the one losing out. Not me.”

  As I get up and walk toward the door, he slaps his papers back into his briefcase.