Chapter 6
Jiya
Aman like Calloway Frost doesn’t deserve to die choking on a latte. It’s sloppy. Undignified.
For six days, that screwed-up attempt has been an insult to my craft. So I’ve decided to give him a death worthy of his ego. Tonight’s performance won’t be in a darkroom; it will be on a stage. And the applause at the end? That will be just for me.
My thumb traces the raised plastic of the button. A single press. That’s all it will take. Overhead, a quarter-ton of crystal and steel hangs like a guillotine, the explosive I planted in its rigging a secret promise. Thanks to the sabotaged camera footage, no one will see a thing.
Tonight, it will fall, and it will take Calloway Frost with it.
A tragic accident, the papers will call it. Poetic justice, I’ll know it as.
“Another glass of Veuve, miss?” The server’s hair is so slick it could double as a mirror. He offers a tray of champagne, bubbles rising like tiny, doomed souls.
I take one. “Thank you.”
I track Calloway through the throng. He moves with grace, a predator navigating his hunting ground. He owns this space, this moment, even though the art on the walls belongs to another.
My mission is simple: keep him in the kill zone.
The champagne hums beneath my skin, just enough to take the edge off my nerves. Not enough to dull my purpose. Not tonight.
He’s at the bar, speaking with his friend, who sometimes joins him at Penumbra, always sitting at the corner table, always watching the room.
I drift closer, positioning myself within earshot while pretending to study a canvas that looks like someone threw a tantrum with a palette knife.
Aanya Sharma. So this is the work of the woman who saved Calloway’s life at the cafe.
Do I hold a grudge? Of course not. She’s an artist, I’m an artist. She just works in paint and impotent rage.
I work in chemistry and gravity. Her little mess inspired me to make a much, much bigger one. It’s a collaboration, really.
The thought fractures as a voice slices through the gallery’s polite murmur, low but clear.
“—just saying, tone down the drama,” the other man says.
“You worry too much,” Calloway replies, sipping his drink.
“One of us has to.”
“The exhibition is perfect. Aanya outdid herself,” Calloway says.
“I’m not talking about the exhibition, and you know it.” His voice drops even lower.
I lean in, fingers tightening around my champagne flute.
Are they discussing Calloway’s murders? Does the other guy know about The Gallery Killer? My mind races with possibilities. Could he be an accomplice? A confidant?
What are the odds of two killers operating in the same social circle? The statistical improbability makes my head spin. Yet stranger things have happened.
Focus, Jiya. Mission first.
“Excuse me.”
I nearly jump as a hand touches my shoulder. An older woman donning geometric silver jewelry and wearing a silk pantsuit stands beside me, her smile wide and practiced.
“You look familiar. Are you one of Aanya’s models?”
“Oh, no.” I laugh softly, touching my hair in what I hope appears as a modest gesture. “I’m not a model. Just an admirer of fine photography.”
“You certainly have the bone structure for it.” The woman studies me with the eye of someone who’s spent decades appraising both art and people. “I’m Eleanor Winfield. I’ve been collecting Aanya’s work since her first show.”
“Jiya Kline.” I extend my hand, which she clasps between both of hers. “I’m actually new to Aanya’s work, but I find her perspective fascinating.”
Eleanor launches into a detailed analysis of Aanya’s evolution as an artist; her silver bracelets punctuate every emphatic gesture. I nod at intervals, my attention split between appearing engaged and keeping track of Calloway in my peripheral vision.
“Are you in the arts yourself, Jiya?”
“I’m a bartender,” I say, my eyes darting over her shoulder, scanning, searching. The spot where Calloway and his friend stood is empty.
I scan the room, a sea of black dresses and tailored suits. Nothing.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I cut Eleanor off mid-sentence. “My friend…”
“Of course. Enjoy the rest of the exhibition, dear.”
The moment she drifts away, I scan the room with renewed focus. The gallery space has filled in the last twenty minutes, making it harder to—
There. Near the far wall.
Calloway stands with a woman in a backless emerald dress that clings to her curves as if it were painted on. She’s tall enough to meet his eyes directly when she laughs at something he’s said.
She’s stunning. Statuesque with deep, dark skin that glows under the gallery lights. Her eyes are enormous, expressive, framed by impossibly long lashes. And her hair... Her hair cascades in glossy waves all the way to her ass.
Aanya Sharma. The artist herself.
Calloway slides up beside her with ease. His hand lands on her shoulder, fingers splaying across the exposed skin where her dress cuts away. She turns to him with a smile.
They seem...intimate. Connected. The way he leans into her space. The way she accepts it without hesitation.
My stomach clenches. Is that why he’s been refusing my advances? He’s with her? They’re together?
I drain my champagne too fast, bubbles burning my throat. I can’t look away from them, from his thumb now tracing small circles on her shoulder blade. From the way her body angles toward his like a flower to the sun.
Something hot and unpleasant coils in my chest. Perhaps I should kill both of them.
I blink, shocked by the venom of my own thoughts. Kill Aanya? What the hell is wrong with me?
The thought is so venomous it shocks me. I’ve never considered harming an innocent. That’s the line. My only line.
Aanya Sharma’s only crime is being beautiful and talented and the object of his affection. Is that what this is? Petty jealousy?
I press my thumbnail into my palm, using the sharp pain to focus. This is about him being The Gallery Killer. This is about justice. About stopping a murderer.
I’m losing it. I’ve spent weeks obsessing over Calloway Frost, and now I’m contemplating harming an innocent woman because why? Because she’s getting his attention and I’m not?
It’s the alcohol. Must be.
Three glasses on an empty stomach. What was I thinking? I set the flute down on a nearby high-top table, pressing my palm against the cool surface to steady myself.
He called my name when he came. Mine. Not Aanya’s.
The sound of his breathing, harsh and ragged in the studio’s silence. His face twisted in pleasure. My name, a broken prayer on his lips as his hand moved...
“Jiya.”
I flinch, a sharp, involuntary jerk of my entire body, my breath catching in a sharp gasp. The gallery rushes back into focus—the art, the noise—and he’s standing right there, his brow furrowed in concern. Not a phantom, but flesh and blood, far too close.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Calloway says, studying my face with unnerving intensity.
“Maybe I have,” I say, forcing my lips into what I hope passes for a smile. “Just too much champagne.”
His head tilts. “You sure you’re okay?”
The genuine concern in his voice throws me.
“I’m fine. Just not a crowd person.” My gaze drops to my sleeve, and I pick at an imaginary piece of lint. “All this pretension makes me itchy.”
He laughs. “God, me neither. Half of these people think a Rothko is a brand of vodka.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Supporting a friend.” He gestures toward Aanya, who’s now surrounded by admirers across the room. “We were at RISD together. I helped her land this show.”
“She’s stunning,” I say, watching his reaction.
“She is,” he agrees without hesitation. “Her work, too. Have you looked at it?”
“Not yet.”
“Come with me.” He places a hand on the small of my back, the touch a spark against my skin, and guides me to the painting I’d hidden behind. “This one’s my favorite.”
The canvas is a storm of textures. The paint isn’t just applied; it’s troweled on, thick and sculptural, creating a cityscape dissolving in a downpour. Slashes of silver and gray mimic the rain, while blurred neon lights bleed into the wet chaos.
It’s bleak and cold and overwhelming. Then you see it—a single window, a perfect square of warm, solid gold paint in the upper corner. A beacon of warmth in the cold.
“It’s about hope,” Calloway explains. “Beauty in unexpected places.”
I lean closer to the image. “So...are you and Aanya...?”
“Friends,” he says, eyes still on the painting. “Just friends.”
The relief that floods me is sickening. I hate myself for it. What do I care who he sleeps with? He’ll be a smear on the polished floor in minutes.
“Really? You seem close.”
His mouth quirks up at one corner. “We are. But not like that.”
“What about you?” Calloway asks, turning those impossible blue eyes on me. “Anyone special in your life?” His gaze drops to my lips.
Heat blooms in my chest, spreading outward until my skin tingles with awareness.
“No,” I say, my voice emerging huskier than intended. “No one special.”
He steps closer, closing the space between us until I can feel the warmth radiating from his body.
“Hard to believe,” he says. “You must have admirers lined up around the block.”
I laugh. “Occupational hazard. Too many men think friendly service means I want to sleep with them.”
“And here I am, being one of those men.” His self-deprecating smile is disarming. “Sorry about that.”
“You’re not,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyebrows lift. “Not what?”
“One of those men.”
Calloway’s eyes darken, and his smile shifts into something more predatory. “No? What kind of man am I, then?”
My heart is a trapped bird beating against my ribs. The remote in my clutch feels like a block of ice. The kind who gets off on the thought of women he’ll never have.
“The dangerous kind,” I say instead.
His smile widens. “Perhaps we’re both dangerous.”
My body betrays me again, responding to his nearness like I’m some college girl getting attention from the most popular guy at the party.
“Excuse me.” I step back, putting distance between us. “I need to use the restroom.”
I turn and walk away before he can say anything else, clutching my purse against my side. Inside is the remote trigger that will end his life, along with a lipstick, my phone, and a vial of poison I won’t need if I just press the damn button.
I escape to the cold marble of the bathroom, splashing water on my face. My reflection stares back. A killer in a cocktail dress. I reapply my lipstick, a slash of blood-red armor, and walk back out.
I position myself across the room from Calloway. He catches my eye, tilts his head in silent question. I give him a small smile but make no move to rejoin him.
Distance. I need distance. I need clarity. Before I lose my nerve.
The champagne buzzes in my bloodstream, but my head feels clearer now. I watch him work the room—charming, attentive, moving from group to group. Several women attempt to capture his attention with lingering touches and meaningful glances.
He’s polite but doesn’t engage beyond professional courtesy. His eyes find mine occasionally through the crowd. Each time, my skin prickles with awareness.
I nurse a glass of water, watching the minutes tick by.
Calloway moves toward the center of the room where Aanya is addressing a circle of admirers. The rigged lighting system hangs above them. My fingers curl around the remote in my purse.
Not yet. I need her to move.
I wait.
The crowd thins. People drift toward the exit, saying their goodbyes, collecting coats, exchanging business cards.
Calloway remains under the lights, speaking with an older man in an expensive suit—some donor or collector, judging by Calloway’s attentive posture.
I wait.
Finally. He’s alone. The stage is set.
My fingers close around the remote. My thumb finds the button.
His profile is all beautiful angles, like a god sculpted him out of spite.
My thumb hovers over the smooth plastic; the slightest pressure is all that separates him from oblivion. This is for them, I think. For all the victims whose names I’ll never know.
I draw a breath, ready to press down—