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)
Everyone knew that the police weren’t owned by the government.
Instead, gangsters had a tight grip on them.
The Diamond Syndicate—a group I wanted no part of.
“News coverage on this victim has not been big.” He walked up. “But the new victim will surely garner more news stations to hover everywhere.”
“New victim?”
“Another woman died last night.”
Stunned, I remained there in shock. “I didn’t know about that. That is horrible. I am sorry for the victims and their families.”
“Can you tell me more about your art and why you chose fire as—”
“Hold on.” I uncrossed my arms and held my hands out. “My subject choice has nothing to do with these incidents.”
“But, you must admit that your art may be connected to the murder. Do you happen to have any psychotic friends or associates?” He gestured to Fenway’s images. “Surely, the art world is full of them.”
“I keep my circle very small, and none would do anything like this. However. . .” I let out a long breath. “It could be a sick fan or someone that has a problem with me.”
He opened his mini notebook. “Who would that be?”
“I have no idea who that would be. They’re anonymous.”
“But you have an idea who it is?”
“I don’t, but when I do you will be the first person to know.” He frowned, didn’t make any notes, and shut the book. “Mr. Russo, your sculptures bear an uncanny resemblance to the crime scene. Can you explain that?”
My heart boomed in my ears.
I knew I had done nothing wrong, but the detective’s words still shot terror through me. Never would I want a human to be tortured due to art that I created. In my mind, I knew it couldn’t be true.
What if the killer killed the women first, saw my artwork, and figured that perhaps we both would like the same thing?
But. . .I knew that it had to be deeper than this.
Peiter, hurry up with this person’s identity.
The detective tapped his foot. “I believe your sculptures have a lot to do with this. It’s almost as if. . .you placed the women there yourself.”
“Why would you think that?”
“The way she was positioned is very similar to your sculptures.” With no warning, Thornley put the images in front of my face.
I tensed, but looked at them.
On the first photo, a woman’s black crusted body soared from this odd contraption that mimicked the shape of flames. Whatever it was, it held her up.
I couldn’t recognize her face because there was barely any left. Her skin was black, roasted and cracked. Her eyes were gone, her hair singed down to nothing.
What sort of maniac would do this?
Unfortunately, I had to admit that her positioning was similar to my sculptures as well as the contraption and its flames.
It was almost as if the murderer was mimicking my collection.
But. . .how would he have seen it before my showing?
He showed me the next one.
This photo was new, but similar. Completely burned up woman positioned in the same way as my sculptures from Burning Desire.
He placed the images on my desk. “Very interesting.”
I looked at him. “What is interesting?”
“Usually when I show someone a picture like that, they would gasp or turn away.”
“I don’t gasp, and I definitely don’t turn away.”
“Others may even have thrown up or dry heaved, but you. . .you remained calm as if you were checking out a picture of cute puppies.” Thornley leaned forward. “You have a strong stomach for things like this?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Have you seen worse in your life?”
I watched him. “I have witnessed the beauty of art and the ugliness of life. Therefore, I have learned to keep my emotions in check.”
“Where are you from, Mr. Russo?”
“Am I a suspect to this murder?”
“I am only trying to catch your accent.”
“My sculptures have nothing to do with what happened to these women.”
“Do you not think it is odd that the woman was set on fire, the same night of your showing?”
“It is only a coincidence.”
“I am not big on coincidences, Mr. Russo.” Leaving the pictures on my desk, Thornley went to the back wall and gazed at the Fenway paintings. “I already checked if you had an alibi, and of course many could vouch for your presence at the showing, even hours before the woman appeared downtown, trapped in that metal contraption.”
I remained on edge.
This monster did that. . .downtown. Was the video of the first victim?
Thornley rubbed his beard. “Still, I wonder if your art has any connection to the killer. It could be a friend? Male lover?”
“Male lover?”
“I’m sure you have one.”
“I don’t.”
Thornley smirked. “Who knew about the collection before you showed it?”
“Many. My agent, the gallery staff, a few art critics.”
“Friends.”
“I keep my circle small, but yes.”
“Your art.” Thornley shook his head. “It is wrong to show women being set on fire.”