Chapter Thirteen
THIRTEEN
Izzy and I arrive ten minutes late to a busy art studio, where everyone has claimed a space to work on their projects. A couple of people nudge one another and stare as we enter. I’m not surprised—we must have been gossiped about all morning.
I scan the room from the doorway as Izzy wanders to a huge basket spilling over with multicolored balls of wool.
She seems oblivious to the whispers, so I leave her to it and walk slowly through the room, scouting around for somewhere I can lay out the newspaper articles without anyone looking over my shoulder.
Scarlett waves at me, so I return the gesture but keep my head down, not willing to talk about last night.
I see Ford and Noah, too, both poring over large coffee-table art books from a shelf in one corner, but I don’t let on to them.
Instead, I approach the back of the room until I reach a messy desk.
It’s by a large window that looks onto an inner courtyard, and is piled with stuff on one end and an ancient desktop computer on the other.
It’s much quieter back here, which suits me, and there will be plenty of space if I do a quick tidy.
The desktop might be more useful than my iPad if I want to print anything, too.
I put my bag down and spend a few minutes fiddling with the computer before realizing it isn’t even plugged in, but eventually I get it working and leave it to warm up.
I eye the pile at the end of the table while the computer creaks to life.
This desk seems to be little more than a dumping ground, because I find several magazines with pages torn out, some snapped and leadless pencils and an array of chewed-up printouts that tell me the printer might not work so well.
I stack the magazines neatly, figuring they might be used for collages or something, but take everything else to the trash.
When I come back the computer is awake, and happily, the log-in details are taped to the side of the screen, so I enter them and resign myself to another five-minute wait as it loads.
How did people used to do this all the time?
I flip idly through one of the discarded magazines, noting it’s older than my little brother, before pushing it away.
I glance around the room and watch the other students at work instead.
Everyone is busy, bustling around as they prepare themselves for a creative afternoon, and I can’t help but think it’s strange how normal everything feels after last night.
Watching all these people mill around like nothing happened makes me almost believe I dreamed the whole thing.
I bet it was a different story this morning, though.
When everyone arrived, the news must have spread like wildfire. I’m glad we weren’t here for that.
I unpack my notebook, slowly pulling off the rubber band.
Even though yesterday was a nightmare, I am intrigued by the story behind the self-portrait and I want to find out more about BBK, the serial killer mentioned in that article.
I know I should be horrified even thinking about murder right now, but instead I feel weirdly removed from it all.
I’ve packed the whole incident away into a little box that I can scrutinize without getting it tangled in my emotions.
I don’t know what that says about me—to be honest, I don’t really want to examine that at the moment—but it means I can look at it somewhat objectively. For now, anyway.
I pull a tall stool over to the computer and load a web browser, typing the initials “BBK” in the search bar.
The screen immediately fills with results; seems like BBK is fairly well-known, and I wonder how I haven’t heard of him.
I scroll down the page and look at links to articles on everything from Wikipedia to the Encyclopedia Britannica to a website called .
I sigh and go back to the beginning. Good old Wikipedia it is.
I start to jot down notes as I skim-read the BBK entry, scribbling a few lines before I pause to rub my eyes.
God, this is basic. I read it again, but the scant information doesn’t change.
BBK, or Bind, Bleed, Kill, was an unknown serial killer.
There were four victims in 1911, all women who were found on the Lower East Side of New York.
There’s also a timeline of the murders, which I write down.
BBK was never formally identified, but there are many, many theories as to who he was, from the deranged son of a prominent New York businessman to a guy called Spring-Heeled Jack, a mythological figure from early 1800s London who had fingernails made from metal.
I shake my head at the last one, deeming it ridiculous. As if that guy ever existed.
I scroll to a tab labeled “victims” and sit up a little bit straighter.
Again, there’s not much detail and the women aren’t named, but it does tell me a bit more about the crime scenes.
Each woman was found tied to a wooden chair, and there was evidence of puncture wounds and bruising in the crooks of their elbows, indicating that they’d possibly had blood drained from their veins.
There was also a significant lack of blood in each victim.
I scribble feverishly as I wonder where I can find out more, especially about how they were posed, until I read a note reminding me of the fire Dad mentioned, the one that destroyed a lot of the evidence.
“Hello.” I almost fall off my stool at the male voice and put a hand to my pounding chest. Ford is standing on the other side of my desk, holding a wooden easel. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s okay,” I laugh nervously, closing my notebook. “I was just in the zone.”
“Sorry,” he repeats. He stares at me for a moment and the hair on the back of my neck starts to prickle.
“Did you, er, want something?” I ask, trying to swallow the squeak in my voice. Ford blinks and looks down at the easel before looking back at me.
“Oh! Yeah. Do you mind if I set up my canvas at the end here?” He gestures to the window. “The natural light is great, and I like to compose a loose sketch on the canvas before I start.”
“Oh, sure,” I say, kicking myself. I wasn’t anticipating company.
“I’ll stay out of your way,” he promises, setting up the easel and stool so his back is to the window. “I like it to be quiet when I work.”
“Great,” I mutter, watching him go to retrieve a large canvas and a pencil case. I try to nudge the desktop out of his eyeline so I can work in peace. He returns and tacks a small Polaroid to the top of the canvas, selecting a pencil before glancing in my direction.
“My grandfather,” he says, pointing to the photo. “He liked art.”
“I can’t wait to see the end result,” I say, forcing a smile. There’s something intimidating about Ford. Maybe it’s his slightly haughty way of speaking, but he makes me uncomfortable, like I’m constantly in danger of saying something he will think is stupid.
He doesn’t respond.
I turn my attention back to a list of references at the bottom of the article.
Some are book titles, but there are a couple of links, and I click on a promising one called “the crimes.” It takes me to an old New York newspaper archive.
There’s a brief introductory paragraph about BBK and then a list of jpeg links.
The website looks old and I briefly wonder whether the links are legit, but it’s not my computer, so I decide to risk it, ready to pull the plug and pretend I never touched it should the link spawn a virus.
I click the top one and let out a breath when the scanned image of an old newspaper article appears.
It takes a minute, but once it clears I expand it to full screen.
Columns of tiny writing are crammed around a central sketch, which isn’t much more than a line drawing.
I can make out a figure in an old-fashioned dress.
It seems to be a woman and she’s slumped in a chair, but the sketch is so loose there are no defining features.
I close the image and I’m about to navigate to the second when movement catches my eye.
“Room for a little one?” Izzy beams, dropping a large skein of red wool on the desk.
“What’s he doing here?” she mouths, tipping her head toward Ford.
I just shrug, so she wanders over to him and starts yammering.
Subtle as a sledgehammer, that girl. I leave them to it and open the next image, but it’s very similar to the first one, another loose-lined pencil sketch of a woman in a chair, though this outfit is a little grander.
I click the print icon, thinking it might be better to see them all lined up on paper.
The computer seems to be connected to something, but there’s no printer nearby, so I repeat the process with each of the images and push myself off the stool to go looking for them.
I approach the front of the room, where Ramona’s desk is.
She’s not there, but there is a printer and I can see a sheaf of papers in the tray.
My images are on the top, so I collect them, then take a second to have a peek at what everyone else is doing.
A couple of people have easels set up, like Ford, but most are working at desks and there’s a steady thumping noise as one girl repeatedly drops a block of clay onto a wooden board.
I spot Noah cleaning a lens, his camera in pieces.
His hair is swept to one side and he has a look of concentration on his face that I can’t help but find adorable.
God, Fliss. I take a step toward him, unsure what I’m even going to say, when a hand rests lightly on my shoulder.
My heart races as I whip around, forcing Scarlett’s hand to drop.
“Fliss! I’m sorry, did I startle you?” she asks, her eyes wide. She’s wearing a long, kimono-style jacket over a navy top and denim shorts today, her hair loose as usual.
“It’s okay,” I say automatically, even though my adrenaline is spiking. “I was just distracted, that’s all.”
“I didn’t think you or Izzy would be here,” she says quietly. I quickly change the subject.
“Wanted to start my project,” I say, holding up the printouts without letting her see them. “Have you started yours yet?”
“Yes!” She grins. “You want to see?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, so I follow her to a desk holding an array of beauty products.
“It’s part installation and part performance art.
I’m going to spread out lots of makeup and hair products, then invite the audience to apply them to me, to do whatever they think will make me look pretty. ”
“You are?” I ask, intrigued. The thought of allowing strangers to apply makeup to my face is so weirdly intimate. “What if you don’t like it? Won’t it make you uncomfortable?”
“I’m sure it will.” Scarlett shrugs. “But that’s part of it. It’s all about exploring the beauty standards that women are expected to uphold. I might let them take photographs, too. I’m not sure yet. I’m calling it Beholder.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” I admit. I can’t help but be impressed—there’s something so brave about it. “It sounds great, Scarlett.”
“Thanks!” she chirps. “I just need to figure out how I want to set up the space.” She looks at the papers I’m still holding. “What about you? Journalism stuff?”
“Kind of. I’m researching that painting from the gallery.”
“Oh?” she says, but she’s started to fiddle with an eye shadow palette and I can tell she’s not really interested. “That’s cool.”
“I better get back to it. See you later.” I say, excusing myself.
She smiles and I look for Noah but he’s busy with Ramona now, so I head back to my desk.
Izzy is still sitting with Ford, but she has started to unravel the wool, so she at least looks like she’s doing something.
I shove the printouts into my notebook and glance over at Ford, who is frowning as he draws dramatic, swooping pencil lines.
It reminds me that all this research on BBK won’t get me anywhere if I can’t connect him back to the paintings, and I know what I need to do next.
I need to find out if there are any records of the artist who painted The Four.