Chapter Thirty-three
Friday morning, I stand in front of the third painting. Blood.
It’s hard to speak. The piece is that impactful.
Rolling, textural waves of blue-gray-green, like looking at the ocean from above in the late evening light, and in the lower right section, what looks like a woman’s body, floating, small amidst the vastness of the turbulent water around her, trailing a trace of red, which I imagine is blood.
There’s a sense of freedom – but not in a happy way.
Maybe it’s the dark side of freedom. Loneliness.
Death. A far cry from Life and its visceral, if dark, energy.
Just like the other two pieces, the paint is lumpy in parts, with grainy ridges at the edges of the waves, giving the painting a sense of motion. I feel like I could dip my finger into it and it’d come away wet – figuratively. Though, literally, that’s true as well.
It has the same impact as the others, but it’s so different too. In Life and Skin, the subjects were front and center. This one, though, is mostly ocean, with the subject of the portrait tiny, reduced, face-down.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ says Simon in a reverent hush.
‘So someone else finished her painting?’ It’s the only way to explain its appearance.
Simon winces politely. ‘I wouldn’t jump to conclusions. Oil paintings with this kind of thick application can take days, weeks, even months to dry.’
‘So she could have finished it over six months ago?’ I can hear the tightness in my own voice, the confusion. ‘Before she disappeared?’
‘It’s possible, however …’ Simon gestures to the pale, gritty ridges of the waves, delicately painted on, like a fragile lace edging. ‘I’d guess these finishing touches were done more recently.’
‘How recently? A day or two? A week?’
Simon’s forehead puckers. ‘I’m afraid I can’t say.
Drying speeds depend on many things. The thickness of all the layers combined, and in this case, there are many.
The temperature and humidity of wherever it was kept.
The pigment itself—’ He shakes his head.
‘I’d say a week? Maybe two? No more than three. ’
A horrible vision creeps into my mind, of Zoe alive for much longer than I originally imagined. Kept under lock and key, forced to paint, for some twisted reason. And then, as soon as she finished this painting …
I feel sick at the thought.
I check my phone. Nothing from Liam. Now I’m getting nervous. After this appointment, I’m heading to his place and kicking down the door if I have to.
Pocketing my phone again, I focus on Simon.
I can’t ignore the fact that these paintings showing up after Zoe’s disappearance is very lucrative for the gallery. An unknown artist could only get so much. But a murdered artist in a high-profile serial killer case …
What happened, Zoe? You started this one. Who finished it? You? Or your captor?
I lean closer, as if I could discern such a thing.
The figure of the woman is more detailed than I realized, now that I’m looking closely.
You can see part of her back is above the water, and her legs and arms are underneath.
A dead man’s float. The ribbon of crimson around the woman’s body blends in with the chaotic fan of her dark hair.
All of a sudden, all I want to do is touch the painting. I know that’s a huge no-no in the art world, but it’s not like alarms are going to blare …
I dart a look at Simon, who’s very focused on his phone at the moment.
Then, very softly, very gently, I touch the crest of one of the waves with my index finger, a kiss of skin on canvas.
I pull back quickly and rub the bit of grainy white paint that came off between my fingers.
A bit of paint that Zoe may have stroked on right before the death blow came.
Her finishing touches. Her last mark on the world.
I wrap my arms around myself and stand upright again. Is the floating woman Zoe? Was this Zoe’s way of painting her own goodbye letter?
‘I hope to have the legal side of things cleared up by next week,’ says Simon. ‘If you’re in a position to bid on the series, I’d be happy to keep you in the loop.’
‘Yes, please do,’ I say, even though of course that’s not going to be possible.
*
Outside the gallery, I call an Uber, because I’m going to Liam’s.
Yesterday I allowed myself to be pissed at him for not responding, but who am I kidding. I’ve been worried all along. We’re dealing with a killer here, and Liam’s ghosting could be a sign that something terrible has happened.
Why oh why didn’t I immediately press him yesterday on the lead he was following?
As I wait for my ride, I dial him. The call goes straight to voicemail. There’s a tingle down my spine that’s worming its way into my bones.
The sensation increases until it’s practically screaming at me.
Something is wrong.
The whole ride, I’m clutching my phone in my lap and my heart is pounding.
All the reasons he might not have showed – or texted – skit through my brain like a news ticker. He got sick. He misplaced his phone. He lost track of time. He confused the dates and thought we agreed on tacos tonight instead of last night …
The car crawls to a stop in front of his building.
Please be home. Please be home, I chant internally as I leap out of the car, barely tossing a ‘thank you’ behind me before slamming the door.
I buzz his apartment and jiggle on my heels while I wait. Nothing. I buzz again, and again. Someone comes out of the building and I scurry in with a breathy ‘thanks,’ take the stairs two at a time to his floor and pound on his door.
‘Liam! Are you in there?’
I put my ear to the door, listening for any sound of life. Just silence. I pound again. ‘Liam?’
A door behind me flings open. ‘Hey, can you quiet down?’ says the same older woman from last time, her hair in a disheveled bun.
I try to sound apologetic. ‘Sorry. But – did the guy who lives here come in or out today?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’ There’s a child’s cry from behind her, and with no further ceremony, she closes the door, leaving me alone again.
I try to stifle the panicked feeling that’s clutching at my chest. OK, Margot.
Just breathe. Maybe he’s on his way to my place to share whatever he found yesterday?
And his phone really did run out of battery?
He doesn’t have a key to my apartment, but maybe he’s waiting outside my door as we speak. Yes, that must be it.
I hurry back down the stairs and call another Uber. Screw the expense – I don’t have time to wait for a bus.
I wait on the curb for five minutes before the new Uber pulls up – and it’s the same guy that just dropped me off here.
‘Oh. You again,’ he says.
‘Yeah.’ I climb in. ‘Can you drive fast?’
‘If you’ll give me five stars.’
‘No problem,’ I say as he accelerates.
Twenty minutes later, we’re back at my place. It’s almost eleven now – lunch time, as the grumble in my stomach reminds me – but eating seems impossible until I know where Liam is.
He’s not outside my door. But he is a PI. Could he have picked the lock? I unlock the door with my heart in my throat.
‘Liam?’ I call out as I step inside, even as I register the emptiness. No shoes in the front entry. No sign that anything has moved since I was here a few hours ago.
I close the door behind me. Walk to the center of the living room. For a minute, I stand there, just wanting to cry.
What next? I don’t know where else to look for him.
He doesn’t work in a traditional office with coworkers.
And I don’t have the names or numbers of any of his friends or family members.
I could call Barnett – but Liam hasn’t even been gone for twenty-four hours.
He’d think I was jumping the gun. Not to mention, last time I called Barnett, it was to demand Liam’s arrest. Barnett is not going to take me seriously.
I need to think, but my brain feels like an overheated engine.
I’ll eat. That will help me think. It seems almost wrong to stop and take care of myself, but it’s probably smart.
Before heading to the kitchen, I turn on the TV and press play on the next episode of the ocean documentary I had on last night.
Immediately, the soothing, familiar voice of the narrator helps calm me.
‘… during their nightly migration, which is the largest synchronous migration in the world, female dragonfish rise to the photic zone, closer to the surface of the water, and during the day, return to the dark depths …’
Since my fridge didn’t spontaneously generate any new, edible food, I stand in the kitchen feeling lost. I close my eyes and try to slow down my heart, which seems determined to race right out of my body, because if something has happened to Liam …
‘… the male dragonfish lack teeth and a digestive system, and do not hunt or eat, but only survive long enough to reproduce, using the energy from their egg yolk …’
I’m just sinking into a slightly calmer state when my phone dings, wreaking immediate havoc on my pulse. I unlock it. Oh my God. It’s Liam.
Sorry I missed your texts. Wasn’t feeling well.
Relief sweeps through me, weakening my knees. For once, I’m glad my instincts were wrong. But right on the heels of the relief comes annoyance. If he wasn’t feeling well, why not go home? Or, hello, text me way earlier, when he knew he wasn’t going to make it?
Where are you? I type back. I just stopped by your place.
With a friend. Can’t talk now.
A friend? I pfft out my breath. Does he want pissed? Because he hasn’t seen it yet. He didn’t give me details on the lead he was following. And now he’s being needlessly vague about his whereabouts. This is such a red flag. What happened to all our openness and transparency?
OK, but what was your lead?? I type back. I need details.
Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again.
Turned out to be nothing. Also, I just got word today that I have to leave town for a job. The money is good and I can’t pass this up. I’ll be gone for at least 5-6 weeks. Talk when I get back?
I stare and stare. Leave town for a job? Now? For five to six weeks? Fuck!
And then, cutting through my initial burst of anger, a thought, clear as day.
This isn’t Liam.