Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I walk over to the reference books and pull one down. She watches, curious, saying nothing as I flip through the paintings until I end up on another Vermeer. “The Gardner Museum.”
“The what now?” she asks.
“It’s an art museum that got robbed in the nineties. Some important pieces were taken, in particular this Vermeer.” I jab a finger at it.
She comes over, like she can’t help herself, and leans over my shoulder, her warm body pressed to my shoulder.
The image is simple. A dark room, the light coming in from a window on the left. A girl sits at a piano in a yellow dress with yellow ribbons in her hair, maybe a teenager, maybe older. On her right is a man in a red chair. To his right is an older woman, maybe the girl’s mother, gesturing at the man. On the wall are two paintings, lost to shadow, and in the foreground is a piece of cloth draped over a table. I can almost hear the girl playing, the noise echoing off the checkerboard tile floor, her parents having a soft discussion by her elbow.
Hellie makes a soft noise in the back of her throat, half of excitement, half erotic.
“It’s incredible,” she says.
“You can make this.” I run my finger down the page. “This and the others taken from the Gardner. We’ll start here, take it slow, make sure we have plausible stories for how they surfaced again, and you’ll do your thing in this room.”
“I can’t.” But she’s staring at the image, her voice a whisper, her body pressed to mine. “I won’t.”
“Paint for me, Hellie.”
“Would you stop saying that?”
I shift myself, turning to face her. She stares up into my face. “Paint for me, because if you don’t, I can’t guarantee you’ll be safe.”
A low hum escapes her throat. It’s a purr, or maybe it’s a growl.
“That’s how you’ll manipulate me, isn’t it? You’ll pretend like you’re the only person standing between me and certain death, and if I do what you say, you’ll keep me alive. But I don’t believe you.”
She walks away. I feel the space between us like that blank canvas.
Haunted by potential.
“I’m not lying.”
“Again, I still don’t believe you.” She stands by the window. “Just leave me alone, okay? If you’re going to kill me, then kill me. I can’t live like this, playing some stupid game.”
I try not to smile. She thinks she’s calling my bluff, but she has no clue what she’s doing to herself.
I turn away. “Start work today. Start with The Concert, if you want. I’ll check up on you soon.”
“I’m not going to do it,” she calls as I head to my room for a shower.
But I think she will. I saw the way she looked at the book, the way she gazed at the canvas. She wants this. She’s tempted.
And I’m just as tempted, but for something so much worse.
Chapter 9
Hellie
“Asshole.”
I pace around the studio, glaring at all the art supplies.
“Asshole.”
I keep thinking about Erick, his self-satisfied smirk, his muscular chest glistening with sweat, covered in tattoos and scars.
“Asshole.”
Each time I pass it, my eye strays to the Vermeer paintings. The Concert. How does a man like Erick know about something like this? I’m into the art world and I’d never heard of the Gardner.
He probably likes the crime aspect.
“Asshole.”
I run my finger down the glossy page. It’s strange, the woman on the right side, her hand’s up in the air as if mid-gesture, and her face is glowing from the light slanting in from the window. There’s the vague, blurry image of the sky and some trees on the inside lid of the piano, and I can’t tell if that’s a reflection or if it’s a decoration. In the foreground, under the table draped by cloth, is a little basket. Almost lost in shadow.
It’s beautiful.
“Asshole.”
“You don’t have to keep saying it, he knows.”
I yelp and jump, flinging myself around. The other man from that night’s standing in the doorway, grinning at me. He’s in a dark suit fitted to his muscular frame. Around Erick’s height, but wider, like a damn refrigerator.
“You scared me.”
“Sorry. My name’s Ren.” He doesn’t move to enter the room. “I heard you were hanging out in here and I had to see it for myself.”
I get myself together, straightening my clothes. “Here I am, his little circus show.”
“Aw, don’t be so down on yourself. Erick really thinks you can pull this off.” Ren stared around, a skeptical frown on his face. “But based on the way you keep muttering asshole to yourself, it seems like this job is off to a bad start.”
“I’m not doing it.” I turn away from him, arms crossed. I slam the art reference book closed. “He can just kill me if that’s what he wants.”
“You’re right. He could.”