Chapter 53
“Oh, Tilly…my word!” Shelby stands in the open doorway of my studio, one hand pressed to her chest, the other gripping the side of the doorframe. Her knees quake inside her slacks, as evidenced by the fabric quivering, like the ground is vibrating under her feet.
I stare at Shelby, who stares at me and then my arm. I am unsure how to answer. The fogginess remains, and I’m momentarily paralyzed by the conflicting emergencies.
I remove the syringe. Drop it into the trash bin. It clangs against the bottom, and Shelby’s eyes go to the bin. Then I stand, too quickly, and am dizzy. Pushing through it, I step in front of my workbench and the painting on it.
“Everything’s fine.” I try to infuse calm confidence into my tone.
I’m panicky, though, my heart hammering inside my chest. I press my fingers into the spot in my elbow where a tiny pinprick of blood blossoms. I force a smile, cock my head with what I hope appears like mild, unconcerned curiosity. “How did you get in here, Shelby?”
The door requires a code to open it. A code only I know. Also, I’m sure I locked it behind me—I always do.
“I…someone was crying,” Shelby says in a breathy tone. She’s pale. I should offer her a chair but am hesitant to leave my position in front of the painting. “I called out your name but was worried something was the matter and you couldn’t hear me.”
She looks over my shoulder, toward the painting. I can’t have that.
“How bizarre. Well, it wasn’t me. The crying,” I reply. Then, “Would you mind closing the door? The climate in here is finicky.”
The moment it takes Shelby to turn and grasp the door’s handle gives me enough time to retrieve the cover, which is on the floor near the workbench. I quickly set the top corners onto the canvas and then tug the sheet down to cover the rest. There, both emergencies managed. Now for damage control.
“Listen, Shelby, I can explain, but…why don’t you take a seat?” I pull out the desk’s chair. Then I sit on the stool across from her.
“Why were you crying?” she asks. Her hands twist in her lap. “Is everything all right?”
“I wasn’t crying. I’m not sure what you heard.”
“No, it was you, Tilly. And then I heard something else.” She swallows reflexively. She’s nervous. Now I’m nervous.
“What was it?” I ask. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, I hear in the room. Is that my heartbeat, echoing beyond my chest?
“Your voice was raised, and it sounded like you were arguing with someone. You kept saying, ‘No, you can’t have this, you can’t have her!’ ”
Something goes cold in my center. I have no memory of any of this.
“But when I got up here, the door was open and…” Shelby wraps tightly clasped hands around her crossed knees. The diamond wedding ring she still wears glimmers under the lights of the studio, her fingers whitening with her grip.
“And you saw me with the syringe.” I keep my voice smooth, chuckling softly, and she looks at me in surprise. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I can only imagine how confusing this is. But I was drawing blood as part of the conservation.”
I point to the small contraption on the desk—gleaming silver, with the GIA emblem on its side and an eyepiece on the top.
The portable 3-D digital microscope, which I borrowed from the lab when I visited Dale.
It looks similar, at least in size and shape, to an old-fashioned plastic kaleidoscope.
“I need to do a biological sample comparison, with the microscope.”
I need to do no such thing, but it’s the first excuse I come up with.
“I can’t give you any details about the painting, but I will tell you this,” I continue. “The artist used unconventional materials in the art, blood being one of them.”
“Oh!” Shelby exhales forcefully, her eyes wide. “How macabre.”
I nod. You have no idea. “I’m sure it was distressing for you, coming up and finding me doing a blood draw,” I say. “I’m so sorry, I thought the door was locked.”
Why wasn’t the damn door locked?
“Nothing is wrong, I promise you.” I smile, pausing a moment before adding, “I was also listening to a true-crime podcast, which may be what you heard? It’s a guilty pleasure when I’m working.”
I hate true-crime podcasts and require total silence in my studio, but Shelby likely doesn’t know either thing to be true or not.
“I don’t know how all y’all listen to those shows.” Shelby shakes her head. Her face has relaxed somewhat, her cheeks pinking up again. “I would have nightmares for weeks.”
I laugh. “It’s not the best at bedtime.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re all right,” she says, standing. “I know you have a lot to do, with work, so I’ll let you get back to it.”
I open the studio’s door. “Shelby?”
“Yes, honey?”
“I hope I have your discretion,” I say. “I’ve, uh, signed a nondisclosure agreement saying I won’t show the art to anyone.
And obviously I messed up, with the door.
I’m sorry to put you in this position, but I would appreciate it if you could keep this whole thing between us?
Even Wyatt can’t know. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize my fee.
Especially not with the baby almost here, and Clem’s new school costs. I’m sure you understand?”
Shelby smiles warmly, though there’s a hint of something in her eyes.
Worry, I think. Of course she’s worried.
My mother-in-law found me drawing my own blood in my studio!
Plus, I can’t imagine how the Leclerc affected her, if she got a good look before I came to.
It isn’t exactly an uplifting piece of art—the grief in it is raw, visceral.
The piece is disturbing both in ways you can put your finger on, and in others you can’t.
But she doesn’t mention any of that. “Our little secret” is all she says.
“Thanks, Shelby.”
She glances at her watch. “Ah, looks like Wyatt and Clem are home. I’ll go scrounge up a snack.”
“I’ll be right down,” I say. I lock the door behind her, trying to control my ragged breathing. What just happened?
Eyes darting into the trash can beside me, I see the blood-filled syringe. My arm has stopped bleeding, though there’s a tiny raised bruise around the pinprick mark.
“What the hell is going on?” I whisper, a swell of panic settling into my chest.
With quick fingers I grab the syringe and cap it, then swivel from one side of the room to the other, trying to figure out what to do with it.
I can’t just toss it—it’s a biohazard. What if Clementine were to find it somehow?
Besides, garbage collection isn’t for another five days.
I consider discarding the blood down the sink, hiding the syringe somewhere safe until garbage day.
But it feels too risky with everyone home, the washroom sink a full flight of stairs below.
Opening the desk’s top drawer I see the old plastic silverware tray I’ve repurposed to hold my tools.
I tuck the capped syringe into the longest slot, at the back, which is three-quarters full of paintbrushes of varying sizes.
You have to open the drawer all the way to reach it, and I know even the most curious in my house, Clementine, would be unlikely to find the syringe hidden under the brushes.
Even if she were to breach my trust by opening my desk.
I open and close the drawer a few times, making sure it stays hidden, then decide to lock it for good measure. I’ll get rid of the syringe when I put out the rest of the trash later in the week.
There. We’re okay, I think, trying to center myself before I join Shelby downstairs. As I breathe deeply through my nose, out my mouth, it doesn’t occur to me to question who else I’m referring to, with my use of “we’re.”