She's Too Pretty to Burn

by Wendy Heard

  “Here you go,” the driver said.

  Mick climbed out first and trotted around to open my door and help me get out. My dress was vintage and much more complicated than her simple black tank sheath. She helped me up, shut the door behind me, and brushed my skirt off.

  “Thank you, darling,” I said.

  “Just trying to be a gentleman.”

  “You’re doing a great job.” Her legs and shoulders in that dress were actually slaying me. I ran a hand through her hair, which was glowing pink in the sunset light.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked.

  “You’re just so pretty. I wish you could see yourself right now.” I played with a strand of her neon-pink hair, turning the strands this way and that. I wished I could photograph it, but I knew it wouldn’t come out. I realized her expression was dark, her eyes glinting with shards of pink and orange. I released her hair. “Are you okay? Seriously, tell me. How is it with your mom? I feel like we’ve barely talked the last few days.”

  “I’m fine. My mom is fine. Everything’s fine.” A man in a tuxedo and a woman in a long black dress brushed by us haughtily. We were in the way.

  I pulled her off to the side. “Mick, what’s going on?”

  She sighed and looked down at her toenails; she’d painted them red. “I don’t like this. I don’t want to ruin it for you, but I hate it.”

  I studied her averted face. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know it’s not like you asked for this either. It’s just working out really well for you.”

  I frowned, ruffled by the bitterness in those last words. “Well, it might work out well for you, too, if we end up making any money on this.”

  “I don’t need your money.”

  I put my hands up defensively. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just, I keep getting offers from people to pay us if you want to do, like, partnerships on Instagram and stuff.”

  “I don’t want to make money this way. I don’t want this.” She flung an arm in the direction of the hotel.

  Her eyes were gleaming; she was crying. Again. She shook her head fast. “Let’s just get this over with,” she said, and raked her hands through her hair.

  I knew I’d had my head up my ass for the last couple of days—I’d been basically living in my darkroom, and she’d been swimming a lot—but how had I missed that she was this upset? I should have noticed. I’d assumed everything was fine now that she and her mom had reconciled, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the little boy thing was really haunting her. I wondered if she should see a therapist.

  But it wasn’t only about her. This event was about my art, all my years of work and practice, and all she had to do was sit through it for a few hours.

  Suddenly, I was angry. “Can you try to be a little more supportive? How do you think it feels that no one noticed my work until I photographed a hot blonde? Do you realize this might be my only chance at this kind of recognition?”

  She snapped her eyes onto me. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  We stared at each other—a showdown—and then we both softened.

  “Sorry,” I said, while she said, “I’m sorry.”

  I pulled her closer to me. “It’s just a few hours. Then you can take me hiking or something as revenge.”

  She half smiled. “I’m not going to take you hiking.” She kissed my cheek, and warmth slid through me. Everything was going to be okay.

  Inside the hotel, it was all about high ceilings, geometric lines, and acres of glass looking out on the coastline. A woman in a black suit with a name tag stood waiting to greet us with a bright smile. “Welcome. You’re here for the Save the Bay event?”

  I nodded. “I’m one of the artists in the silent auction.”

  “You’ll be through that archway.” She pointed left. “Along the outdoor corridor, and then to the right in the Grayson Room.”

  Mick and I followed her instructions. A group of overdressed, bejeweled people milling around a glass door told us we were in the right place.

  Another staff member opened the door for us, and then we were in what looked like a reception hall converted into a gallery, with temporary white walls erected in a careful maze. A sign advertised the Save the Bay Silent Art Auction, but it was anything but silent. The room was crowded with guests examining the hundreds of paintings, sculptures, and photographs.

  Carmen appeared in front of us. “There you are!”

  I’d only met her once, at a restaurant in LA where she gave me some feedback on my photos and arranged for me to drop them off here at the hotel. She had full sleeves of colorful tattoos and vintage bangs, a sort of pinup look that was superhot. Tonight she was wearing a fitted white cocktail dress.

  “You must be Mick,” she said, holding Mick at arm’s length and looking her over from head to toe. “You’re gorgeous in person. Just wow.”

  “Thank you,” Mick mumbled.

  Releasing us, Carmen pointed to where my photos had been hung, in a prominent spot along the left wall. At first, I couldn’t see them because they were surrounded by people. More people were crowded in front of them than any other work in the gallery.

  The viral Instagram photo was displayed in the very center. I’d blown this one up to twenty-four by twenty-four in a process that pushed my enlarger skills to the max and required my mom to call in favors from the teacher who ran the darkroom on the city college campus. Other photos of Mick were hung on either side, smaller, to highlight this as the centerpiece of the series.

  Mick pressed her lips together into a thin line when she saw them. Her eyes flitted from photo to photo, and she took a step back.

  Some of these were pictures I hadn’t shown her yet, photos of her diving into the pool and stretched out sideways from behind, bare backed, and of her in semidarkness, her eyes closed and mysterious, the rest of her face cast into shadow. People seemed to prefer the portraits where her face was centered in the frame. The darkroom shots with her bathing suit straps falling off her shoulders had people crowded tight around them, as did the one of her sitting on the bed, looking up at me with those haunting child-woman eyes.

  To the crowd, Carmen said, “Ladies and gentlemen, here are the artist and the subject of these pieces, if you’d like to ask them any questions.”

  Hungry eyes turned on us, and then we were surrounded. Diamond-encrusted hands reached out, wanting to touch me and Mick, to feel our skin and grip our hands.

  “This reminds me of my first love,” one woman told me. “He’s dead now, but I’ll never forget him. Antonio. We were together for five months, in Mexico.”

  Another said, “This makes me feel … It makes me feel something. Sad, but also, it’s so … it’s so … real.”

  Mick backed away. Her face was blank with panic. “I can’t do this.”

  We were getting separated by the crowd, but I tried to grab her hand. “Mick? You okay?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.” She turned and fled. She rushed through the glass doors and then I was alone, surrounded by the crowd. An older man was telling me about the day he proposed. Another woman’s eyes were bright with tears.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me!” A voice carried over the din around me. “We’re with the San Diego Union-Tribune. Can we get a shot of the artist? Is that you?” Suddenly, cameras were in my face. “I’m from the Guardian,” said someone else. “We’re with the Arts Magazine—”

  Carmen’s voice lifted over the others. “After interviews, we’ll head over to the dinner. Where’s Mick?”

  “She left. It was too much.”

  Her face darkened. She clearly didn’t like this.

  “She’s extremely shy,” I explained hurriedly. “This is hard for her.”

  “Fine. Veronica, stand here.” She gave directions to the photographers, and I was hurled into the position of subject, pinned by the lenses and the flurry of eyes and flashes. Was this how Mick felt? I tried to smile, to create a flattering angle for the cameras. Someone identified himse
lf as a reporter from the LA Times. All these famous publications!

  They asked questions between pictures: “How old are you? What school do you go to? Do you know your photo has over a million hits on different accounts? Are you gay? How old is your girlfriend?”

  Those questions made me angry. It felt like something they planned to sensationalize so gross old dudes could get off on the idea of pretty teenage girls having sex with each other. “Don’t worry about if I’m gay or not,” I responded icily. “Ask me about photography.”

  As the people around me dispersed, I saw that the sky had grown dark, and the lights from the hotel reflected in the water of the marina and off the sailboats parked right outside. Hotel staff announced it was time for the dinner part of the gala.

  Carmen reappeared and pointed to a clear plastic box hanging on the wall at the end of the row of photos. It was full of little white papers. “Silent auction bids.” She grinned and gave me a huge hug. “You did a fantastic job. What does this feel like? I can’t even imagine experiencing this at your age!”

  “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. I felt like I had spoken more words in the last fifteen minutes than ever before in my life.

  “Why don’t you head over to the dinner? I’ll be down in a few. Take a load off. And congratulations. This is just the beginning for you, Veronica.”

  I forced a smile. “Will do.”

  “See you in there!”

  I exited through the same door Mick had stormed out of and walked down the long outdoor hallway. The lighting had kicked on, and everything was glowing yellow from the Art Deco fixtures.

  I found the banquet hall by the sound of applause. It was decorated like a fancy wedding reception. I scanned the tables carefully for a long minute, examining each seated person.

  No Mick. So she left, then. For real.

  Dejected, all the joy of the evening gone, I started picking through the tables in search of an empty seat. On the stage, a dignified-looking, grandfatherly man was droning on, listing off names of donors and executives. “And we’re very honored to have Congressman Osgood with us tonight.” I froze and swiveled to face the stage. “Congressman, you’ve been a major contributor to our work at Save the Bay, and we’d like to honor you with something special. Come on up.”

  A slim man with receding brown hair stood up. I knew that toothpaste smile. I knew that wave.

  Nico’s target.

  Onstage, he shook hands with the announcer and thanked the audience. Were they giving him a standing ovation? Why? Bewildered, I looked around me as attendees got to their feet one at a time.

  “We know this has been a hard week for you, Congressman,” the announcer continued. “And we want to tell you how much we appreciate you. We wouldn’t have blamed you for skipping this event, but instead, you continue to further your contributions to Save the Bay, and we can’t tell you how much it means.” More applause.

  Was this a coincidence? Was that possible?

  I was here because someone dropped out. They stopped returning Carmen’s emails.

  Then someone recommended me to her.

  I felt cold.

  Osgood took the mic and raised it to his lips. “My father used to say,” he began, and everyone sat down except for me. “You wouldn’t be judged by your actions during good times; you’d be judged by how you responded to hardship. That’s why I choose to be here and stand firm. Our causes will continue, and so will I.”

  Thunderous applause.

  “I just hope that you’ll remember my—”

  Boom.

  The ceiling above him collapsed.

  An avalanche of leaves and dirt rained down, toppling him and burying him alive. Dirt poured off the stage down onto the front tables. People screamed. A remaining chunk of ceiling was hanging by a thread. As I watched, it vibrated and collapsed, sending another wave of dirt and drywall dust into the room.

  Silence.

  And then screaming.

  I turned and ran for the exit as people jumped to their feet. As I burst through the glass door, they were yelling at each other and trying to dig Osgood out.

  Outside, a few hotel workers were running to help, and somewhere someone was shouting, “Call 911!”

  “Nico!” I screamed. I was furious, terrified. Had I just watched him kill someone? “Nico!” I yelled again.

  Attendees started rushing out onto the walkway with me. I hurried along the perimeter of the banquet hall, searching for any sign of him, my heart pounding in my ears. Ahead, at the back edge of the building facing the marina, something moved along the roofline. I stopped and looked up. “Nico, is that you? Are you up there?”

  Something rolled, tumbled, plummeted down from the roof to the paved walkway in front of me, landing with a sickening crunch. I jumped back, breath sucked into my chest.

  Up on the roof, a shadow, tall and lean, turned and walked out of sight.

  I looked down at the heap on the ground. It was a person slumped into an unnatural ball, dressed all in black, the clothing lit dimly by the walkway’s golden lanterns.

  “Oh God,” I heard myself whisper. I was terrified, hyperventilating. I tried to snap out of it. I knelt down beside the person, unsure if I should roll them over. If they were still alive, maybe I could help. I was afraid to move them and break their spine or something, like you hear about on TV. I found a head of tangled dark hair, and I pushed a few strands aside gently to get a look at their face. The head fell sideways, hair parting, and a pair of dead brown eyes stared straight into mine.

  I screamed and jumped back.

  It was Lily.

  Lily. Dead. Her lips white, her eyes emptier than empty, a mannequin, a corpse, a dead body, dead dead dead.

  I could hear myself sobbing, wheezing. My hands were stained with blood. I tried wiping them on my legs. “Oh my God oh my God oh my God,” I heard myself chanting.

  On the water, a motorboat growled and raced out of the marina, toward the ocean.

  A chorus of shrieks at my back—a group of women had seen Lily. “Call 911!” one of them screamed. A woman knelt at my side, doing exactly what I had just done, confirming with unsteady hands that Lily was beyond our help.

  Ambulances and police cars screamed in the night. The walls and windows of the hotel and the dark, still water in the marina reflected red light onto the shouting attendees. I couldn’t bear the sight of Lily’s unblinking eyes. I wanted to close them, but I—

  “Miss. Miss!” a man near us was yelling at me. “Get out of the way!” People were running toward us, police officers and EMTs. I got up and backed away from Lily. I watched silently as the EMTs checked her over and the police created a barrier around her. “Step back!” they yelled at the attendees, who were crowding around in increasing numbers. A group of men stood in front of me, blocking my view. On the other side of the building, firefighters and paramedics swarmed into the banquet hall.

  Part 3: Buried Alive.

  The earth itself is your judge and jury.

  Nico’s words from the night of the fire popped back into my head: I’m just getting started.

  “Excuse me?” A middle-aged man in a rumpled brown suit was talking to me. “I’m Detective Salcedo. You found the body of the young lady, correct?”

  I nodded.

  “Come with me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  VERONICA

  I was in the back seat of the detective’s unmarked police car, the grate that separated me from the front seat contributing to a bone-chilling claustrophobia. I tried not to look at my red-stained hands and legs, and failed.

  I wanted to text Mick, but I was afraid to draw attention to my phone lest the detective ask to see it. Because the more I thought about this situation, the more I realized what a huge amount of trouble I was about to be in.

  The detective wanted to do an official interview with me back at the station. My mom was meeting us there. He thought I was just a normal witness, someone who had seen a stranger
fall off a roof. And there were questions I was going to have to answer with either the truth or a lie.

  For example: Did I know Lily? The answer was yes. I knew her. But the next question would be—how did I know her? We didn’t go to school together. She was two years older, not originally from San Diego. If I admitted to knowing her, I’d have to tell them how, and the answer to that question really cracked open Pandora’s box.

  The fire.

  If I told them about Nico’s art installations, that I was the photographer who took the pictures on his Tumblr account, that would implicate me in felony arson. Right? Because what was I going to tell them—that I hadn’t started the fire, that Mick and Nico had done it? I didn’t like the idea of throwing either of them under the bus like that.

  I couldn’t imagine what might have happened on the roof to make Lily fall, but I had to think something went wrong with those bags of dirt or some other piece of the install. But the fact that Nico had left her behind—I’d never forgive him for leaving her like that. How could he be so callous?

  And then, as the detective pulled the police car into the station, I remembered something that made me go blank with horror.

  The photo.

  I’d taken that photo of Mick with the torch in her hand. Nico had that roll of film. It was proof that Mick had started the fire. I was on the roll of film too. It tied all three of us to the scene of the fire, the scene of the crime.

  A little part of me wondered if the fire meant anything now that Lily was dead. Wasn’t this the time to just come clean?

  Nico and I had been keeping each other’s secrets for years. He was the only person I really trusted. I had to at least talk to him and hear him out before ruining his life and sending him to jail. Because, unlike me, Nico wasn’t a minor, and he didn’t have parents who would shell out money to defend him.

  * * *

  Detective Salcedo parked the car. “Here we are,” he said cheerfully, checking on me in the rearview mirror. “You doin’ okay there, Veronica?”

  I nodded, but my whole body was shaking. He must have seen it on my face; he hopped out and came around to open my door. “Let’s get you inside and get you a cup of tea. Sound good? I’m sure your mom’s waiting for you.”