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)
“My art is just that, art.”
“But did it inspire a person to commit this crime?”
“You think someone walked into my gallery, saw one of the sculptures, and then got so excited that they raced out of the gallery and set a woman on fire?”
“No.” Thornley turned around and shook his head. “This incident involved long amounts of planning. At least two to three weeks of preparation.”
“I know nothing about any of this.”
“But, who knew about the subject of your collection before the showing?”
“I already told you. It is a small list of people.”
“Please, send that list to my office.”
“I will have my lawyer compile the list and give it to you.” I stopped leaning against the desk and walked over to the door. “Any further communication can be handled through my lawyer and she will help you with anything else.”
“Interesting.” Thornley headed over to the door. “Innocent men usually do not involve their lawyer when they help us.”
I looked straight at the detective, my gaze hard. “I have nothing to do with this.”
“I hope you are correct, Mr. Russo.”
I pointed at the pictures on my desk. “You forgot your images.”
“I did not. I want you to keep them. Maybe, some new information will come to you.”
I scowled.
The detective turned back to the paintings. “What happened to Fenway?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did he die a happily married man with tons of kids and a vault of riches?”
“No. Fenway locked himself away in his studio and hung himself.”
“Why did he do that?”
“He thought his hands were evil and that when he painted something bad with those hands, that the bad thing would happen.”
“So in the end, he was consumed with guilt?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me something, Mr. Russo?”
“Yes.”
“Do you feel guilty?”
My scowl deepened. “I don’t.”
“I will be in touch with your lawyer for that list.” Thornley made his way out of the office, leaving me alone with those pictures of burnt dead women.
What the fuck is going on?
Chapter Nineteen
Anticipation
Once Scarlett and I returned to our apartment, the excitement of the afternoon ahead began to set in.
I was nervous about what to wear for this second date. Therefore, Scarlett helped me rummage through my closet for the perfect outfit.
Together, we flipped through hangers, tossed blouses, and picked out tons of dresses. A lot of the time, we chuckled at the garments that had been pushed to the back of the closet after one too many wears. The room became a whirlwind of fabrics and colors.
Scarlett playfully critiqued some of my more dated fashion choices, and I shot back with sarcastic remarks.
An hour later, Scarlett’s intuition for style and my personal taste merged as we narrowed down the options to a flowing white sundress with a flowered pattern and sandals. The dress was enchanting, lightweight, and whimsical. Its fabric danced with every movement.
Meanwhile, my sandals complemented the dress perfectly. They had a small heel that added just the right amount of height, and their delicate straps wrapped around my ankles in a gentle embrace.
I hope he loves the outfit.
That afternoon, I rode in the back seat of Tristan’s Bentley, settling into the luxurious interior as the cityscape began to blur outside the tinted windows.
Today, his driver, Charles donned a perfectly tailored suit and a pair of dark sunglasses.
Without a word, Charles shifted gears and sped us down Caviar Lime Highway. The engine hummed a gentle melody, and the trees and buildings were reduced to mere flashes of color.
As we drove, the sun shined bright. That golden light found its way into the car and illuminated the exquisite details of the cabin—the hand-stitched leather, the polished wood trim, and the soft glow of the dashboard.
However, it was Tristian’s cologne that really captured my attention. It lingered on the leather seat, tantalizing my senses. It was a blend of warm spices and subtle woodsy notes.
I inhaled deeply.
Damn.
I exhaled and then happily inhaled again. Every breath of his scent intoxicated me, winding its way through my veins until I felt hopelessly drunk on his presence.
Tristan.
Charles took us farther down Caviar Lime Highway.
A sense of anticipation surged through me.
In my hand, I had the red gift bag that held Tristan’s tie and his sketchbook.
I gazed out of the window and noticed that the car took the exit to go to West Paradise.
What surprises does Tristan have in store for today?
I took a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves.
Fuck. He’s got my head and body going crazy.
Insanely nervous, I took out my phone and texted my brother.
Me: I’m ditching my books for a guy.
Me: You totally would be proud of me.
I stared at the screen and all the one-sided texts I had sent. A lump formed in my throat as I scrolled through my old conversations—a virtual graveyard of words.
Sighing, I put the phone up, and the sensation of speaking to my brother brought an unexpected comfort. He was gone, but the act of texting him felt like a ritual—a communion with his spirit.