Chapter 2
LILIANA
“So are you going to invite Marissa to the art show this weekend?” Alice asks me, sipping her Espresso Martini.
It’s not exactly brunch hours, but I can’t blame her for the choice.
We’re only a couple of hours from closing, and a good coffee martini is good at all hours, I suppose.
“You know, she’s not that bad.” Alice tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder, exposing the delicate porcelain skin beneath.
“Well, Marissa is difficult,” I say flatly, shrugging my shoulders beneath my black sweater.
“The last time she was invited to one of the shows, she complained the entire time about her section not being close enough to the front door.” I frown at the thought of the nepotism baby artist whom I extended an internship to.
She has some talent, but the moment she sold one piece to a major dealer, she decided she belonged in every large art show.
Front and center.
“Ha,” Alice shakes her head, “The girl has no idea. She thinks she’s something special, doesn’t she?”
“The girl is going to cause my hair to fall out.” At the mention, I run my fingers lightly through my light brown, caramel-colored locks.
They’re slightly tangled from a long day of work, and honestly, there might be remnants of paint from my most recent project in the studio.
“I really thought she showed serious promise, and I thought that was worth the attitude, but…”
“But now you’re second-guessing it, yeah?” Alice’s blue eyes dance across my face with amusement. “I told you, you’re too nice, Liliana . You need to set the bar higher on the people you let come work for you. You’re too sweet for your own good.”
I let out a sigh. “Well, I suppose I can overlook certain things…” My voice trails off as the door to the elegant bar swings open, and a couple of brash, loudmouthed men in suits walk in.
I don’t divert my gaze, taking a moment to analyze the way they walk thoroughly, their egos plastered across their faces, dawning smirks, and puffed-out chests.
Chauvinists.
I can spot them from a mile away, and they permeate the air in the city like toxic smog. One meets my gaze and gives me a grin. I roll my eyes and turn my attention back to Alice.
“So, what was it you were saying?” I’m not sure if I missed something in the middle of my distraction.
She giggles, shaking her head. “I was telling you about that app I started using. Girl, I had the weirdest experience with it recently.”
“And what’s that?” I feign amusement, like some hookup app is even worth my time. I can only imagine the type of men who use it.
Probably men just like the ones who walked in.
“Well, I had it all set up for the breaking and entering kink,” she lowers her voice, leaning in across the table. “And then the guy comes in, right?”
“And fucks you the best you’ve ever been?” I repeat the exact phrase she used the last time she expanded on one of these crazy hookups.
“No!” Alice jarringly sits up, tossing her hands in the air. “He fucking leaves! What’s up with that? I guess he didn’t like what he saw.”
I blink a couple of times, trying even to imagine the scene she’s describing. “And this is why you asked me out for drinks tonight, isn’t it?”
She winces. “Maybe. I’m really sorry, Lil. I just felt so rejected when he left like that tonight. I’ll get the tab tonight.”
“It’s okay,” I sigh, brushing away the disappointment. My best friend is my favorite person in the entire world, but I know her antics way too well. I run my finger along the table, relieved that it’s not sticky to the touch. There’s nothing worse than a sticky bar table.
“You know, you really should—”
The sound of my phone blaring cuts her off from whatever she was about to say, and I let out a sigh, digging it out of my purse sitting beside me. The phone screen is lit up with Jen, my building manager’s, number.
What could she possibly want at this time of night?
“It’s Jen,” I announce to Alice, letting her know so she doesn’t think I’m just being rude. I place the phone to my ear. “Hi, what’s up? It’s really late.”
“I need you to come down to the gallery, Liliana.” Her voice shakes as she speaks, and I freeze, dread washing over me.
“What’re you doing at the gallery?” I ask, keeping my voice calm. “We’re closed tomorrow in preparation for the weekend. No one is supposed to be there right now.”
“Well, the cleaners wanted to know if they could come in early, and I didn’t think that’d be a big deal. I got here about an hour ago, and… and…” Her voice breaks, a muffled sob filling the other end of the phone.
“And?” I press, careful with tone so as not to be rude.
“And… There’s a body here,” she whispers, sounding just as frazzled as ever. “The cleaners called the cops and then me. Oh my goodness, Lil, it’s horrifying… I can’t… I don’t… I think you should come down here.”
What the ever-loving fuck? Did some junkie OD in the alleyway again?
“Someone should’ve called me much sooner,” I snap, sliding off the bar height chair. Alice is watching me, her expression riddled with concern, but I just mouth, “I gotta go,” and then head for the dive bar exit.
“The police are asking for you,” Jen continues as I slip out into the night and make a dash for my car, the air miserably still.
“I’m sure they are,” I say, pursing my lips in borderline annoyance. “I’m the owner of the gallery, of course, I need to know what’s going on. There was a body found outside the place.”
“Wait… Lil…” Her voice cracks. “It’s not… They weren’t found outside.”
I shake my head as I start the process of navigating traffic. “What? What do you mean?”
“I just can’t believe it.” Jen just keeps sounding more and more traumatized with every second I remain on the line, not even answering my question. “I don’t know who it is.”
“Jen, where was the body?” My tone takes an edge, because now I’m starting to feel nervous.
“Ugh, it’s just so awful,” Jen breaks into sobs on the phone again. “This poor man probably had a family or something!”
My upper lip twitches, and my heart jumps to my throat. “Um, potentially, I suppose. But can you please—”
“I don’t know how you’re staying so calm about it,” Jen just keeps bawling into the phone, and while I can appreciate anyone’s emotions…
I really wish she would tell me what the hell is happening.
We’ve had plenty of strange things happen outside the gallery.
That’s just the consequence of having a gallery in the arts district, which bumps into the rougher side of town.
I paid for the best security system, and I've never had anything happen inside.
But the moment it comes into view, I realize it is precisely what I was hoping it was not.
And it looks like a scene right off CSI.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, parking behind an unmarked cop car. I put my Jag F-Pace in park and then hang up the phone as Jen, a petite little redhead, comes running for my car, her arms waving.
I toss my phone into the passenger seat and climb out, fatigue pulling at my eyelids as I adjust to the bright lights. There are cops everywhere, going in and out of the gallery, but no looky-loos…yet. I know they’ll come in droves.
It could be good—or bad—for business.
“It’s just crazy,” Jen huffs, as if she’s been running a marathon. “There’s blood everywhere.” She latches onto my arm and then drags me toward the front door. “She’s the owner!” Jen sees the uniformed cops blocking the doorway. “They want to see her.”
One of them gives us a funny look, but then opens the doors. We step inside, and the warm lights are usually a comforting thing for me. However, tonight, they burn above the heads of too many unwelcome guests, and as I glance around, I catch sight of the scene.
My heart jumps a couple of beats as my eyes scan the pool of blood and a pair of black dress shoes. Beyond that, I can’t see the crime scene team blocking the view.
Oh fuck. It’s an actual murder in my gallery.
My stomach lurches, and I think I might throw up what little I’ve eaten today.
“Don’t look at it,” Jenna says to me in a low voice. “You might be scarred for life. I’m not kidding. I think this’ll give me PTSD.”
I nearly laugh out of pure nerves. But also, Jen has no idea what kind of PTSD lurks in my mind, as do most of the people in this city. They don’t think of me as Liliana Wilson, the daughter of a fucking serial killer. No, here, I get just to be Liliana Wilson, gallery owner and artist.
“Miss Wilson?” a deep voice cuts into my thoughts. “Can I speak with you for a minute?”
“Um,” I spin around to see a tall, dark-headed, and dark-eyed man, peering down at me.
He’s wearing a cheap suit, and the detective badge on his jacket is less than impressive.
Though I have to admit, his broad shoulders and frame are remarkable.
I keep my wits about me, though. I know his type, way too well, and struggle not to shiver with memories. “Who are you?”
He cocks a brow, holding his cute little notepad in his hand.
“I’m Detective Shaw. I’ll be working the case.
” His hazel eyes have a hue of amber in them, but even though his olive skin looks deliciously smooth beneath the lights of the gallery, I’m immediately annoyed by his presence.
“Would you mind answering a few questions?”
I narrow my eyes at him and his nonchalant tone. “I’d like to know if any of the art was stolen first, and what happened here.”
This comment must surprise him, because he gives me a strange look. “We haven’t taken inventory of that.”
“Then you should,” I snap, shaking my head at him. I can feel the inner child in me building my mile-high walls with every passing second.
This is PTSD, Jen.
“Someone was murdered,” Jenna says, her hand now touching my shoulder. “I’m sure that’s all they’re thinking about it…” The reassuring tone in her voice grinds my nerves further, and Detective Shaw seems to read me all wrong.
“I’ll have someone walk her around and see if anything is missing,” he offers, gesturing to Jen. “Are you aware of the pieces?”
“Yes,” Jenna blurts, her cheeks reddening under his gaze. “I know what was here. We have to keep an inventory for insurance purposes.”
“Perfect,” Shaw mutters, and then looks away from us, waving down someone else. I watch his movements with scrutiny, wondering just how brilliant this detective really is. My eyes flicker around the room, taking in the bright white walls, adorned with hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of art.
Shockingly, no one took it, I think to myself, taking in a long, deep breath.
“You look very composed for such a situation,” Shaw prods at me as another detective escorts Jen to the other side of the gallery, their attention on the art hanging on the wall.
“Unfortunately,” I begin, meeting his gaze with confidence, “Some of us are not strangers to violence.” I leave it at that, knowing good and well that all he has to do is take a quick look into my history, and he’ll understand way more than I’d like.
He nods, albeit slowly, his eyes taking in my black sweater and jeans. “So you own this place, huh?”
I make a face at him as the team begins to move the body. “I’d say so, and I think you know that.”
He chuckles, his little notebook still dangling at his side. I can already tell he’s profiling me right there on the spot, and suddenly, I wonder just how much is at risk for me.
And if my world is about to explode.