Chapter 4
LILIANA
“This is a mess,” I groan, standing over the blood pooled on the floor. The white floors are stained with a red smear, and I swallow the urge to panic. “We have to do something about this.”
“Um,” Marissa, my intern, clears her throat. “Should I call a different cleaning company?” She’s been struggling to process it since she showed up to work this morning, crying intermittently. I have no idea how most people handle trauma, so…
I just let her.
“We’re going to have to clean it up,” I shoot back at her, seeing her nervously swipe her blonde waves from her face.
“Didn’t the CSI people clean it up?”
“I’d hardly say they cleaned it up,” I mutter, shaking my head.
“In fact, it’s embarrassing even to try to label it as such a thing.
They don’t… They don’t clean things up.” I press my palm to my forehead, forcing a long, deep breath as my heart starts to pound in the side of my head.
“We can’t have this. We have to fix it. Now. I can’t believe this happened here.”
Why am I starting to panic? This is now, not then.
“I mean…” Marissa’s voice trails off as she wraps her arms around herself. “I don’t think you can really choose where someone is murdered…”
“Oh, you absolutely can, if you’re the one doing it,” I huff, running a finger over my bottom lip. “This was just…messy. I wonder if we should just replace the floor.”
“We could,” Marissa says, her voice quiet. “This is supposed to be the place that I put my artwork on display.”
I blink a few times as I register the paleness in her face. Of course, that’s what she’s worried about. “You could just make it match the floor,” I say, keeping my voice level. “That would be a new angle to take. Maybe it would help you process things.”
She looks at me like I’m insane. “Um…”
“Well, it’s just a thought,” I say quickly. “The only downside is that it’ll attract all those strange, true crime-obsessed weirdos. They’ll be in here trying to take their own swabs for DNA testing or something.”
“Wait, people actually do that?” Marissa gives me a funny look. “Why would anyone want to go poking around a murder scene?”
Yeah, try being the daughter of one of the most high-profile serial killers of all time. But I’ll keep that to myself.
“Did you watch the news this morning?” I reason, folding my own arms across my chest. “Victor Blueson was one rich guy. It’s going to attract attention.”
“Yeah, I knew of him,” Marissa’s eyes drop to the spot on the floor again. “Not closely, though. He was friends with some of my family. Well, his dad was friends with my dad.”
“I see,” I hum, unsure of what to make of it. My early morning Google search didn’t reveal much, except that he’s a very wealthy criminal defense attorney.
And that was enough for me just to stop the search and clear the history.
Marissa clears her throat, and I look up at her, not realizing that I had zoned out on the floor along with her. “Just tell me who you want me to call. I don’t want to work this into my display.”
I sigh. “Just call the usual company. Tell them it’s an emergency. If the stain isn’t lifted by the time they’re done, arrange for someone to come and replace the floor. That’s really the best we can do.”
Marissa teeters back on her heels awkwardly. “I really need to get to my project…”
I hold back my irritation. “Please just do as I asked, Marissa.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Her nose twitches ever so slightly, and while small, the moment of frustration on her face is not unnoticed.
“Great.” My heels click against the floor as I make my way back to my office, ignoring the huff that escapes her lips when she thinks I’m out of earshot. Usually, it would bother me, but right now, I feel like if I stay engaged with her, I might lose my mind.
And besides, she needs to learn the lesson of priorities.
I rip the office door open, nearly missing the sign of the bell ringing as the front door opens. I ignore it, figuring Marissa is stepping out to take a smoke break, probably cursing me as she does so. However, as soon as I take a seat at my desk, there’s a knock on my door.
“Yes?” I peer up, prepared to argue with Marissa.
Instead, Detective Shaw steps in and closes the door behind himself. “Good morning, Miss Wilson.”
“What can I do for you?” I deadpan. I think I’d rather deal with Marissa at this time in the morning.
“I just wanted to thank you for the footage. It let us know when he arrived last night, but unfortunately, it didn’t help us with anything else. Could you possibly tell me if there’s any way someone could enter this building without being caught on the cameras?”
I blink twice, trying to process what he’s asking. “There are two doors, and both doors are in the footage I provided. I’m not sure how else someone could come in. I can’t think of any other way to enter, not without breaking a window or something.”
“Rooftop access?”
My nose crinkles. “Um, are you implying that your suspect flew onto the roof? Because I know the prominence of superheroes in movies, but those don’t exist in real life, Detective…” I’m honestly trying to be helpful. But I honestly hate law enforcement, too. They ruined my life.
His lips turn downward into a frown. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but someone could follow the roofline from another building. It’s as simple as jumping a small gap. It happens frequently.”
“Oh,” I mutter. “Then I would say you should be looking to access neighboring footage? I’m not sure what else I can help you with.
I need to look for that list now.” I turn to my computer, waving the mouse to wake up the screen.
My eyes drop down to a small red spot on the keyboard, and my thighs clench at the sight.
I need to get some time in the studio today.
I’m desperate for some sort of mental release, given all the drama happening around the studio. I need to dive back into my work. I might not have a new piece for the gallery this weekend, but I can at least have something ready for the next one.
And work is the best distraction.
“Miss Wilson?” Detective Shaw clears his throat. “Are you listening to anything that I’m saying right now? You seem very distracted.”
“Well,” I snap at him, trying to muster up a glare. “I think that’s fair, given what happened in my gallery last night.”
“Hmm.” He’s quiet for a moment, seeming to pause and think about what exactly did happen in the gallery. This detective is slowly but surely crawling beneath my skin, and I’m not a fan of it. It’s like he finds me amusing.
Or maybe suspects me. Maybe he knows.
I chew the inside of my cheek at that sobering thought. Do I even have an alibi? Because I’m pretty sure just being home alone before going out with Alice doesn’t fit that bill cleanly. That might become an issue…
Oh shit. I need to call Mom.
“Why don’t you show me your paintings?” His voice draws me back to the moment. “I’d love to see them.”
I hesitate there at the computer, trying to conjure up an excuse not to give in to his demands—but there’s no excuse. If anything, it might make the whole thing more suspicious. “Fine. Yeah, okay.”
Detective Shaw gives me a curt nod. “Thank you.”
I eye him as I push back from my desk, my shoulders and neck feeling uncomfortably tense. He watches my every move with that fire in his dark eyes. I don’t like it. I don’t like the way his gaze seems to bounce to my lips every few moments. I know what it means when a man acts that way.
He’s a predator.
Or is this detective just trying to make me nervous? That could be possible. They have a lot of tactics, and it's been a while since I’ve been under the microscope.
“Lead the way,” he gestures for me to go in front of him.
I purse my lips and slip past him, stopping to wait for him in the hallway. “I figure you would’ve searched this entire building.”
“We did,” he says plainly. “Your office manager has keys to all of the rooms.”
“So then why do you need me to show you anything?” I fold my arms across my chest, unable to conceal my concern. “It appears that you are more than familiar with my gallery.”
“I’d like to see your art,” Detective Shaw pushes. “I haven’t.”
“Hmm.” There’s a part of me that feels like I should not show him anything, kick him out, and lock the door behind him. However, I know that’s not the best plan of attack, given that someone was murdered in the gallery and my alibi is…
Well, myself.
“You said you didn’t know Victor Blueson,” Shaw continues, following me down the hallway.
“I didn’t,” I say, stopping outside of the heavy wooden door that leads to my studio. There’s a window in the hallway, but if the light inside isn't on, you can’t get a good view. I find it inspiring to let people watch me work, and if I’d like to work alone, then I simply draw the curtains.
“How long have you been an artist?”
I sigh, punching in the code and pushing the door open. “You can probably find all this information about me online on my website, Detective.”
“I think I’d rather get it from the source, herself.” His deep voice rattles something in my chest, and I glance up at him, only to look away when a shiver rolls down my spine. Clearly, this is the kind of man who commands someone’s attention.
I bet he gets whatever he wants from whoever he wants.
The thoughts of Shaw dissipate as I push the door of my studio. The scent of paints and vanilla permeates the air, and I flick the light switch to illuminate the room. My current work in progress lies across the floor, the canvas unstretched and like a massive, colorful rug.
“I read online you use natural mediums? Anything you can find to create your pieces?” Shaw looks at me, his eyes dropping to the pieces of feathers littered across the canvas. “Feathers?”
“Yes,” I answer him, used to this question. “An artist’s mediums are important to them. I use paints, of course, but I also like to mix in natural mediums—mediums that are a part of life. I find they enhance the work.”
“May I?” He gestures to the canvas.
“By all means.” I stand back while he leans over the canvas, his dark brows furrowing as his eyes follow the streaks of blue and green.
Shaw stands erect again, his expression difficult to read. “It’s beautiful,” he finally comments, and then looks over to me. “Quite moving, though I’m not one for art.”
“Clearly,” I hum, tapping my foot quietly. “Most detectives aren’t great artists. You use the other part of your brain. I use my left brain more… Though I suppose some are balanced between the right and left. I think those make the best liars.”
He narrows his gaze at me. “Interesting thought, Miss Wilson.”
“Is it?” I nearly choke out the words as my chest constricts. Something in my body signals danger, and I don’t fully understand it.
He smirks, shaking his head. “That’s all I have for now.” With that, he saunters out of the studio.
“What about the list?” I call after him, but he pays me no mind, leaving me in the middle of the room. My hands drop to my sides, and I linger in the room, suddenly feeling violated. My hands begin to tremble slightly as I take a deep breath, filling my lungs and closing my eyes.
You are fine, Liliana. He’s just a nosy detective.
But there’s something about him I don’t like.
And it’s got me feeling too antsy.
Maybe I need an evening out.