The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) Page 11

  “Ivy came to speak to you?”

  Gradually, his color returns to normal. It’s so gradual that I can actually see it come back in patches across his face. “Yes. She was worried about you.”

  Something warm replaces the chill I’ve carried around all day. “Well, the guards aren’t letting me watch the show whenever I want.”

  “This is a department of corrections, not a country club.” His tone is kind. “My orders only go so far. There is a schedule, and even though the guards can be lenient, they must still enforce it.”

  I want to tell him about Giraffe-neck’s bribe, but ratting out a guard probably won’t win me popularity points around here.

  “I’m happy Ivy’s doing so well,” he adds.

  “She didn’t do well today.” I chew on the inside of my cheek.

  “She’s not disqualified.”

  My teeth release my cheek. “She’s not? She’s still in?”

  “Yes. That’s what the commentators were saying, although Dominic Bacci hasn’t made the official announcement.”

  “Who’s out?”

  “The graffiti artist, I think.”

  “J.J.?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  Happiness fills my chest like helium. I believe I’ll take flight any second.

  “Aster, since you’re here, I’d like to discuss your medication,” he says.

  The balloon pops. “What about my medication?”

  “A guard told me you’ve been refusing to take your pills.”

  “I don’t need them. I haven’t taken them in months.”

  “I was told you did need them.”

  “By whom?”

  “Mental illness doesn’t just go away. I had a sister—”

  “And I have a crazy mother! I know what crazy is. I’m not crazy.”

  He doesn’t speak, which is worse than if he did.

  “Did Robyn put you up to this?” I ask.

  “Robyn?”

  “The shrink.”

  “No. Miss Pierce and I haven’t discussed you yet.”

  “Yet?”

  “You’re bound to come up in our weekly debriefs.”

  “I’ll be gone by then.”

  “Gone? And where will you be going?”

  “Home. The DA will set my court date soon, and I’ll be able to prove it was self-defense.”

  He blinks. Three times. “Self-defense?”

  I nod as I stare at the picture of his daughter again. Our mother had a picture like that on her sewing table. One child sitting in front of one of her quilts. I wasn’t the child. I know because I have a small mole next to my mouth and Ivy doesn’t. The girl in her picture didn’t have a mole.

  “Is she yours, Commander Collins?” I point to the picture.

  He does a belly-flop onto his desk to grab the frame. Is he afraid I’m going to blackmail him or something?

  Frame still rattling between his fingers, he says, “Yes. She’s my daughter.”

  “Be nice to her. That’s the best thing you can do for a child.”

  He seems to relax when he realizes I mean her no harm, and sets the frame back down, but angles it away from me. I have to admit I’m a little offended that he would jump to that conclusion. As I stand, my gaze is drawn back to the picture. There was something about it…something familiar. I wonder if it’s the little girl. Maybe I served her pizza. I have the nagging feeling that’s not it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ivy

  I’m sitting down with two lawyers, Dominic, and Josephine in one of the glass rooms we used earlier to study our lots. The crew has dismantled the other two rooms. Around us, there are no cameras and no assistants.

  “So I’ve prepared a few words that we’d like you to learn by heart,” one of the lawyers tells me. She hands me a printout, which I read over quickly.

  After I set it down, they begin explaining that journalists are going to try to rile me up to get a reaction. I am not to lose my calm—like I did earlier, at the auction.

  I glare at the male lawyer who’s just interjected that bit. “I was feeling faint.”

  He doesn’t respond. He just plays with his lacquered fountain pen, spinning it like a top on the glass table.

  The female lawyer breaks the silence. “They’re going to bring up your sister—”

  “My sister? Why would they bring her up?”

  All four exchange a look.

  Then Dominic skews up his lips and says, “Because she’s in jail. They’ve been trying to get a statement from you about her since the day you arrived. Anyway, they’ve dug up everything they could find. But not just about you. About all the contestants,” he adds as though it will make me feel better. It doesn’t.

  “They’ll bring up the murder,” the woman lawyer says.

  “It was self-defense.”

  She glances at Dominic.

  “It was,” I insist.

  “Well, it still might come up.”

  “It’s none of their business, right? I don’t have to respond.”

  She shakes her oblong head. Her eyes are set so wide apart, she reminds me of a goat. “No. You don’t. We’d rather you don’t.”

  Dominic’s complexion is a little ashen. “The only thing that matters today is proving you didn’t doctor the images of Kevin Martin.”

  “Doctor images? Is that what he’s saying I did?”

  “He’s not saying you did it,” the male lawyer explains, “but he is claiming the images were doctored. He’s even provided the originals. They’ve extracted the IP address from the PNG metadata and—”

  “In English?” I ask.

  He stops spinning his pen. “The originals date back three years and were taken in his town, but three years ago Kevin was serving in Afghanistan.”

  My eyes go wide. “So the images really are fake?”

  “Unless his entire platoon is lying about his whereabouts, then yes,” Dominic says.

  “Does this mean I’m disqualified?”

  Dominic gasps as though surprised I’ve come to that conclusion. “Of course not. But it does mean there’s been some rigging, and since you’re the only one who benefited from it—”

  “Mister Bacci, with all due respect, you selected me. I couldn’t have been your only runner-up. Plus, I don’t know the first thing about computers or IP addresses or metadata.”

  “Do you know somebody who does?” Josephine asks.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s time,” the woman lawyer announces.

  I skim over my rehearsed lines, then hand the paper back. “I’m ready.”

  Dominic squeezes my shoulder. “It’ll be quick and painless. Don’t worry.” That’s easy for him to say.

  As we file out of the room and take the elevator down to the main entrance, the lawyer with the goat face makes me repeat the lines. I recite them by heart. She’s pleased, impressed even. We cross the lobby and go out the revolving glass doors. I breathe in a gust of city air, hot and humid and full of car exhaust, but at least it’s fresher than the recycled air of the museum. I shade my face from the bright sun and then I dare look down. The stairs are carpeted with reporters, and beyond them, spilling out onto the street which has been closed off by blue police barricades, there is a crowd so huge that it reminds me of the computerized battle scenes Aster created for a designer launching a toga-inspired clothing line.

  I’ve always wanted to be famous, but for my talent. No one came today to see me stitch beautiful fabrics together. They came to see me hang. I check for a pillar and a noose as I attempt to keep track of what is being said. Everything’s too loud, too bright. At some point, the lawyer nudges me, and I recite my lines. I must do a good job, because she nods and turns back to the frenzied crowd. In the haze of my brain, in the fog of camera flashes, I hear my sister’s name being yelled.

  “Isn’t Aster a Photoshop wiz?” a sweaty-faced reporter asks. Spittle flies out from his thick lips and lands on my forehead. />
  Mechanically, I wipe it off.

  The question is repeated, distorted, distended. It’s as though the entire crowd below roars it as one. The chilling truth is that my sister is a Photoshop wiz.

  What sort of Machiavellian scheme has Aster planned? And what the hell is her endgame? To trap me in some chaotic maze to make me pay for being the sane one?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Aster

  I throw up when I enter my cell.

  “What the hell?” mutters the guard who escorted me back. “What did you do to your pillow?”

  I smell the air and heave again. And again. The third time, nothing comes out. My stomach is empty, yet the hollow contracts. The guard yells for some assistance. I slink against the cement wall and drop, forcing myself to breathe through my mouth.

  “Inmate Redd, if you have a nose bleed during the night, you are asked to take your dirty linens to the laundry room. We’re not your maids,” Giraffe-neck bellows.

  With the back of my hand pressed against my lips, I say, “It’s not my blood.” I hate the sight of blood. I hate the smell of it. I hate everything about it.

  Blood is death.

  She splays her hands on her hips. “Whose is it then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, grab your pillow. I grant you special permission to go to the laundry room.”

  The perspective of touching the dark stain makes the spasms flare up again.

  “If you don’t care to clean it, then sweet dreams.”

  I push my palms against the cold concrete floor and rise. Finding a stain-free spot, I pinch the pillow and avoid looking at it as I walk down the hallway. All the prisoners are in their bunks, lazing around and chatting. Their conversations stop as I traipse by. I commit those who are snickering to memory. I’ll know to stay away from them. Gill, Chacha, and Translucent-girl don’t smile. The really old woman with the turban also doesn’t react, but then she’s talking to the ceiling, so she’s probably oblivious to the revolting joke that’s been played on me.

  I get another metallic whiff and swallow hard.

  When I was eleven, I jerked awake in the middle of the night. Something warm had seeped through my pink cotton nightgown and drenched my sheets. I didn’t know about periods, so my first thought was that I was bleeding out. I remember racing to my mother’s room in tears and turning on her bedside lamp to show her the blood because I was too frightened to form words. She’d opened her eyes, taken one look at me, and flipped over grumbling, “If you get yourself knocked up, you’re out of my house. And turn off the fucking light!”

  I pass the last cell and catch Cheyenne smiling. It makes her face resemble a slab of veal loin laced in butcher twine. I don’t feel shame anymore, just pure anger, and anger sharpens my senses, and I know, with perfect certainty, that she did it. I slow down when I arrive in front of her. My gaze is drawn to her hands, which rest against her side like little bloated stumps. Something’s dangling from them, a half-open book, my book, the story of my ancestors. I match her syrupy smile, and then I swing the pillow into her face. The still-wet blood leaves a satisfying orangey smear on her forehead. She bellows like a wounded cow.

  “Inmate Redd!” Giraffe-neck’s voice is shrill. “Do you want me to take away your privileges?”

  “I slipped,” I say sweetly. “I’m so, so sorry, Cheyenne.”

  There’s great silence at first, and then the dormitory erupts with laughter. The officer grabs my upper arm and drags me all the way to the laundry room where she instructs a young officer—he barely looks a day over eighteen—to pay close attention to me.

  I let the water flow over the foreign stain. As the crimson turns to salmon-pink, I feel cleansed, pure again, no longer a martyr, almost a virgin. I rub the fabric together to remove the last of it. Soon, my pillow is white, but my nail beds are red, roughed up by the friction. I place the pillow in the dryer and sink to the floor to watch it spin as though it were a television monitor. It’s hypnotic. I find my thoughts straying back to my sister and to her breakdown this afternoon. I wish I could syphon away her pain, but from here, with no means of communication—I’m allowed a phone call but she isn’t—it’s impossible.

  “Did she pass?” I ask the young guard.

  “Who?”

  I stand up. “My sister. She’s competing on the Masterpiecers.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Really? Where are you from?”

  He doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm. “Ambia.”

  I’m not even sure where Ambia is on a map and I don’t really care, so I go back to watching my pillow spin. But then I get an idea. “Do you have a phone by any chance?”

  “Only for emergencies.”

  I take a step closer to him. He takes a step back. “Does it have an Internet connection?”

  “Don’t come any closer or I’ll call for b-backup,” he stutters, raising his hand to his walkie-talkie.

  I stop moving. “Look, the commander gave me permission to watch TV. Because of this”—I tip my chin toward the rotating pillow—“I wasn’t able to catch the end of the show. Could you type in Masterpiecers and just read out the results?” I add a, “Please, sir,” to help my case.

  He fumbles for the phone in his uniform pocket. His eyes flick from the screen to me. And then his fingers tap on the digital keyboard.

  I wait with bated breath for the announcement. Finally, it comes.

  “‘J.J. Fails to Score,’” he reads nervously.

  A breath escapes from my parted lips like a gush of steam. Ivy really is still in!

  He darts his gaze to me. When he’s satisfied that I haven’t shifted, he looks back down. “‘Ivy Not Caught Redd-Handed.’” His voice rings out in the cement laundry block. “‘Jackson the Auction King.’”

  “Go back,” I say. “To the ‘Redd-Handed’ headline.”

  He reads out an article about how my sister swore in a press release that she had nothing to do with the doctored photos of former contestant number eight. “While police follow a new lead, Dominic Bacci and Josephine Raynoir have announced their generous offer of letting Kevin Martin enter the competition. Kevin has accepted and will arrive at the Metropolitan Museum tomorrow. The show will take a one-day break and resume on Friday.” The guard glances up. “Doctored photos? Police investigation? What sort of show is this?”

  The sort that will either make or break my sister.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ivy

  “Everyone to the prep room!” comes a voice from the concealed speaker in my tent. I still haven’t located it.

  I stick the pillow over my head. If only I could stay buried underneath my comforter for the rest of the evening and for our day off tomorrow. I can’t stop thinking about what the reporter implied. I don’t want to believe him, but a big part of me does.

  “Everyone to the prep room!”

  This time, I throw the pillow off and peel the covers away. I stop by the bathroom to splash cool water against the nape of my neck and rinse away the sour taste in my mouth. I’m still fully dressed and made up, but my clothes are wrinkled and my mascara is smudged. I carefully swipe the dark smear with my fingertips and head out.

  In the hallway, I come face to face with Chase. It’s the first time this has happened even though our rooms are across from each other. He clearly looks as surprised as I am from the near collision, but he gets over it quicker than I do. He steps back and tips his head in a gesture meant for me to go ahead of him. I don’t want to walk in front of him—not that I believe he’s going to stab me in the back—so I pretend to have forgotten something in my room. Behind the taut fabric walls, my heart bangs like thunder. I strain to hear his footsteps crush the soft grass. I count to thirty slowly, then I count back down to zero, and then I cautiously lift the tent flap. The sharp green scent of him lingers, but he’s gone.

  Dominic, Josephine, and Brook are waiting for us, dressed down from their usual suits and silks. Josep
hine sports a pair of narrow jeans and a batwing cotton sweater that makes her seem more human; Dominic, a red-checkered shirt that brings out the warm hue of his skin; and Brook, black jeans and a blue shirt.

  “So, in lieu of these strange events, we thought we’d take you out on the town for dinner. And tomorrow”—Dominic grins—“since it’s supposed to be in the nineties, Brook has graciously suggested to host you in his penthouse for a pool party. I’ll organize transportation and bathing suits for noon, which will give you ample time to sleep in.”

  “That sounds amazing,” Lincoln says, flapping her eyelashes that are so laden with mascara they look like crow wings.

  “Also,” Dominic continues, “as some of you might already know, we’ve invited Mister Martin to compete.”

  “But I thought—” Maxine glances at me and then back at Dominic. “I thought he wasn’t fit for the show.”

  “It’s come to our attention that les photos have been doctored,” Josephine explains.

  Gazes automatically land on me.

  “He will arrive tomorrow,” she continues. “Which is why you get a break. Fantastique, non?”

  I’m wondering what part of it is fantastic, the break or Kevin joining us.

  Dominic’s lips press into a taut smile. “I’m truly sorry for all this.”

  “Why couldn’t you have offered Kevin a spot on next year’s show?” Herrick asks.

  “Because there wouldn’t have been a ‘next year’s show.’ His lawyers were threatening to have it canceled altogether. You have Josephine to thank for keeping it running.” His hand rises to her forearm, but instead of settling there, it continues its upward ascent toward his silver hair. Although it’s rigid with gel, he rakes his fingers through it.

  Maxine gives a small clap, but since she’s the only one, she stops and her cheeks turn crimson.

  Dominic gestures to the curtained area. “Your stylists have laid out some outfits in your dressing rooms.”

  Just as we’re all about to head off, J.J. arrives in a pair of baggy jeans that show too much of his yellow boxers. He’s rolling a small canvas case.