Chapter 12
LILIANA
Liliana Marie Longley.
Fuck her.
I hurl a handful of pig’s blood at the canvas I was working on before the gala, watching as it smatters over the hues of gray and gold that were once creating the image of a snake.
I shut my eyes, hoping that somehow, the sick and fucking twisted desires that have been ravaging my imagination will die with the picture I was painting.
But they don’t.
I still want him. Not just any man. Him. I like the detective and all his strange, electric energy. I want him to fuck me until I can’t breathe…
And then I want the chance to do the same to him.
What is wrong with me?
My eyes flutter open, and I glance down at the open container of pig’s blood I purchased off the internet. I grab the lid and then seal it tight, knowing that it’ll coagulate if I’m not careful. It’s just a normal fucking task.
And I still can’t do it with a clear head.
I need some kind of release.
Is that what my father felt? The thought makes my stomach lurch in a way that has bile shooting up the back of my throat. I clamp my hand down over my lips, doing my best to force it back down rather than spew it across my studio.
And just as I can take a breath, there’s a knock on my door.
“Yes?” I turn toward it, thankful that I’m still fully dressed.
The door pushes in, and in peeking, Marissa's eyes are reddened and her blonde hair a mess. She hasn’t been fucking normal since Blueson died, and honestly, she’s pushing the envelope of what’s even acceptable anymore.
“I told you the day was over,” I say the words flatly, folding my arms across my paint-stained white T-shirt. “You don’t have to stay any longer. I’ll lock things up.”
“Right…” Her voice trails off, and there’s something in her expression that has my stomach rolling.
“Is there something we need to discuss?”
She steps inside and shuts the door fully behind her, biting down on her lip. “Well, see…” Marissa clears her throat, sweeping some of her loose blonde curls from her face. “That’s the problem…”
“Okay, you’re making no sense right now.” I’m trying to be patient. I really, really am, but also, I have my own shit to worry about…
Like, if I’m going to give in to the sexual impulse of murder.
“I just…” Her voice trails off once more, and I'm now seriously annoyed.
“Can you please just explain yourself?” My tone grows sharper than what’s necessary, and her eyes widen.
“I was sleeping with him.”
I blink. “What?”
“The attorney who was murdered.”
I take a long, deep inhale and then exhale fully—all the while, Marissa looks at me like I might stab her.
“I know it’s a lot.”
“Well…” I hesitate, glancing down at my paint-covered Converse and then back up at her. “It’s messy, that’s for sure.” A million different questions run through my mind, but I can’t bring myself even to ask them. I don’t even know if I want the answers.
“Should I tell the detectives?” Her eyes fill with tears as she leans against the back of the door, her face a ghastly white. “I’m scared if I tell them, they’ll think…”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “They’ll probably find out anyway.” I use the hair tie on my wrist to pull back my hair, putting it up in a low ponytail. “It’s better to be up front with that kind of information, unless…”
She wraps her arms around herself. “Unless what?”
“Unless you killed him,” I state it plainly.
“If you killed him, then absolutely do not tell the detectives anything more and find a good lawyer.” She opens her mouth to say something, but I hold up a finger, stopping her.
“And don’t fucking tell me if you did or didn’t.
I don’t want to be part of your mess, Marissa. ”
Her eyebrows raise, as if she’s offended. “Okay, but I didn’t…”
“Good, then go be honest with the detectives.”
Marissa just stands there, staring at me for a few moments, and I can’t help but wonder if she expected me to be more open with her about whatever it is that she did. But the truth is, the less I know, the better.
It’s nothing personal.
I’ve just already been through the shitshow before, and I have enough going on in my life. The last thing I need is fucking murder details or something to add to my already spinning mind.
“It’s just hard to be here,” Marissa says, continuing to talk, clearly not catching the hint. “Like, he used to pick me up from here.”
“Okay,” I deadpan.
“And I know I shouldn’t have gotten involved with a married man, but I don’t know…” She lets out a sigh, raking her red nails through her hair. “He was so charismatic.”
I grit my teeth. “They always are.”
“And then…Then he kept telling me that if we could just get my art to take off, then he could leave Ella, and it would work out between us for good.”
And you fell for that bullshit.
“I don’t think he was ever going to do that. I found out a week before that Ella was pregnant. There was no way he was going to leave her.”
“You know, this is great information for the detectives,” I reiterate, pushing off the desk and reaching for the door handle behind my intern. “I think it’s probably best that you tell them about this. Not me. I think I already made that clear.”
A hand lands on my wrist, and I tense.
“But you don’t get it,” Marissa pleads, her eyes rimmed with fresh tears. “All that makes it seem like I did it, but I didn’t.”
“You have to let them work through that,” I say, giving her a sympathetic smile, but I’m not sure it’s authentic enough to land. Because honestly, when you play stupid fucking games, you win stupid fucking prizes.
And that’s what she was doing.
“Everything will work out the way it’s supposed to,” I tell her, opening my studio door. “And again, the best thing you can do is tell the detectives. Preferably, the blonde-headed one. I think he might be the nicest.”
“Parker.”
“Yeah, that one,” I keep herding her out the door. “I think he’s the most likely to hear you out.”
“Okay…” Her voice trails off as we step into the hallway, and I shut the studio door behind me. I click the lock button on the keypad, and then keep ushering Marissa out the door.
Maybe if we both leave, things will be better.
“My parents are going to be disgusted with me.” Marissa’s voice is so soft, I’m actually not even sure she’s talking to me at this point. “They’re going to think I’m a homewrecking whore.”
Well, if the shoe fits…
She sniffles. “And then I could lose my job.”
“I’m not firing you,” I say, letting out a sigh. I mean, it would be nice to fire her, but also, that might look too suspicious right now, and with all these weird impulses I have, it’s best not to tip the scale of suspicion in my direction.
My family ties are enough to do that.
When we reach the door, Marissa spins around to face me, startling me a little. “Liliana, I know you get what it’s like to be…connected. Please tell me that I won’t end up in prison for something I didn’t do.”
I wince. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Blueson told me who you were.”
My heart takes an extra beat. “What?”
“He said that your dad was Richard Longley,” Marissa says the words like it’s not a big deal—like that name doesn’t make me instantly want to vomit. “I figured you’d understand.”
It takes everything I have not to stab her in the throat with the pen I have in my pocket. “I don’t think I understand what you’re insinuating, Marissa.” I do my best to keep my tone even and not show that this is literally pushing me toward the edge.
“Well, I just mean that you experienced what it’s like to be close to a murderer, kind of like what I’m going through.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t fucking a married man,” I snap at her, ripping the gallery door open and gesturing for her to step through the doors. The brisk air reminds me that I didn’t grab my jacket before I left, but I don’t even care at this point.
“No, I get that you weren’t sleeping with anyone,” Marissa says calmly, stepping just outside of the gallery. “But…”
“But what?” I pull the door closed behind me.
“Your best friend was killed.”
My stomach furls at the comment. “You really don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’d prefer that we leave this conversation here.
” I keep having to repeat myself, but something about what I say this time actually gets Marissa to nod, as if she’s accepting the end of our little talk—or whatever the fuck this was.
“Thank you for listening,” she nearly whispers, giving me one last pathetic look before sulking off to her car parked down the street.
I watch her walk away, her designer jeans untouched by art mediums, and her black sweater as smooth as if she’d just put it on.
She looks like she’s right out of a movie.
Well, except her eyes. Her eyes give her away.
She knows something. I’m not going to jump to conclusions and say she did it, but… She’s way more involved than she probably even realizes.
Sucks for her.
However, the longer I dwell on the conversation as I stand there on the empty sidewalk, the more I keep coming back to Blueson. How did he know who I was? Who even was he?
I’m half tempted to go back into the gallery and start digging into him, maybe figuring out why he’d have information like my real last name. Of course, perhaps the truth is that I’m just living in some sort of fantasy world—one that I can convince myself that people don’t actually know who I am.
But maybe it’s all just a lie. Maybe everyone knows.
I run my sweaty palms down the front of my jeans, and then fold my arms across my chest. I start toward my car to go home, scanning the area around me. There’s nothing that stands out of place.
Well, until my eyes land on the black SUV parked just down the street.
It’s facing the gallery, and while I can’t tell for sure that it’s Detective Shaw’s, my body seems to think it is. And I suddenly like the idea of him watching me, taking notes on my movements, and following me around.
It makes me want to be deviant and lead him into a dark place where it’s just us. My breath catches at that thought, my underwear soaking. I stare at the car for a few more beats, as if I can beckon it out from where it’s parked.
And then I snap right back to reality as my phone buzzes.
I fish it out of my pocket and open the notification.
Alice: Meet me in ten for drinks at the Parrot?
I quickly accept, knowing damn well that I could use a drink. And as I send my “okay” to my best friend, my eyes bounce back to the car.
Will he follow me there? Watch me drink with my friend? Maybe I could flirt with a stranger to get a reaction…
I shake my head suddenly at the idea, reminding myself that I do not need to start playing games with the detective. He likely wouldn’t even play it back. He’s menacing and a little creepy, but I know he’s just sitting there because it’s his fucking job.
It has nothing to do with me being something he actually wants.
And I need to readjust my focus before I get in trouble.