Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 75195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
A few times, I had held business meetings in here.
The only appealing thing in the space was my Fenway collection. The paintings hung on every wall. There were eight large paintings in all, each one depicting a nude woman in emotional pain. Their faces were twisted with anguish and despair, their backs arched and impossibly curved.
Since twelve, I had been fascinated by Fenway. Perhaps, it was due to our shared childhood of violence. He’d been an orphan, abandoned and unloved. Also like me, Fenway had always been drawn to the darker side of life, captivated by stories of the macabre and the unknown.
And, our fascinations translated into a passion for dark art.
I often wondered if Fenway also found solace in creating haunting images like I did. Even more, did these gruesome images reflect the darkness within himself?
A knock sounded.
I leaned against my desk. “Come in.”
The door opened.
A tall, broad-shouldered man entered the room with short black hair and a thick graying beard. Scars slashed his right cheek. He wore a dark suit that fit him perfectly. His piercing blue eyes surveyed the space as he stepped inside.
I had the odd realization that he looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place where I had seen him before.
Slowly, he walked up to me, stopped, and held his hand out. “Mr. Russo, I presume?”
I nodded and didn’t raise my hand to shake his.
He dug in his jacket, pulled out his badge, and flashed it. “I am Detective Thornley.”
“I heard.”
He put away his badge. “I am here to ask you a few questions.”
I kept my voice steady. “Sure. What can I help you with?”
Instead of speaking, Thornley scanned the walls and then blinked. “These are interesting. . .images. Did you do these?”
“These are by a famous artist named, Fenway.”
Further taking in the surroundings, Thornley walked over to the paintings on the right wall and assessed them.
I watched with a growing sense of unease as he examined the nude women twisting in pain.
Detective Thornley pulled out a mini notebook and scribbled in it.
What is he writing down? What is going on? Why is he here?
Thornley closed the notebook and studied the paintings some more. “Fenway was famous for this. . .stuff?”
Stuff?
I frowned. “Yes. Very famous. Fenway is considered a legend by many, including me. He was a phenomenal talent.”
“Unfortunately, I disagree. I think that these paintings should be considered a crime.” Thornley turned to me as if hoping to see my reaction to the comment. “He should have been locked up for these paintings.”
“He actually was imprisoned a few times for his art.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Yet, eventually he was released.”
“Why did they release him?”
“He always had alibis.”
“And why did they lock him up?”
“Because people soon realized that his art seemed to foreshadow actual events of murder.”
Thornley eyed me. “How did they realize that?”
“They recognized the faces of the women in his paintings. In every one, it was a woman who actually became a victim later.”
Thornley frowned. “Fenway killed the women.”
“No. There was never any proof. He always had witnesses and—”
“I would say the paintings were proof enough.”
I eyed him. “Why are you visiting me, detective?”
The man went silent for a moment and tapped his finger against his little notebook. Then, he cleared his throat. “I understand you are a sculptor.”
“I am.”
“And you recently had a big presentation of your new art this weekend.”
“That is correct.”
“I saw pictures of the sculptures.” Thornley studied me. “They showed women being set on fire.”
I tilted my head to the side. “Is that a crime?”
Thornley let out a mocking chuckle. “Lucky for you, this is not a crime just yet. Although. . .it should be.”
I frowned.
The detective put the notebook in his pocket and placed his view on the paintings hanging on the other wall.
I quirked my brows.
Where is this going?
The detective seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. Then, he dug into his pocket, pulled out three polaroid images, and walked over to me. “Do you know why I’m here?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Have you not been watching the news?”
“I have not.”
The detective’s eyes narrowed. “On the night of your art showing, someone set a woman on fire.”
It happened. For real.
I tensed. “In Paradise City?”
The detective nodded.
Do I tell them about a text that no longer exists?
Even more, if they wanted to go through my phone, they would have to get it from Peiter who would never let them inside.
It also didn’t help that I had a natural distrust for the police.
This distrust wasn’t born overnight. It was the product of years of experience, a slow accumulation of doubts and fears that had hardened into a shell of suspicion. Perhaps it started with the way they treated people in my foster homes’ neighborhoods, the heavy-handed tactics, the disdainful looks at people of color.
Or maybe it was the constant news accounts of corruption and abuse that were all too common in Paradise City.