I move slowly, letting the silk of my dress flow around me like water. I am the Queen of this castle. I have nothing to fear.
I reach the bar. The man is standing there, leaning his elbow on the marble counter. Up close, he smells of stale coffee and mint gum.
"You don't like the art," I say.
He turns to me. His eyes are brown, flat, and unimpressed.
"It’s a little violent for my taste," he says. His voice is raspy, like he smokes too much.
"Violence sells," I reply, signaling the bartender for a refill. "What brings you to the opening? You don't look like a collector."
"I’m not," he admits. "I’m a fan of the backstory."
"The backstory?"
"The artist," he says. "Ivy Ross. Daughter of Marcus Ross. Disappeared for a month. Reappeared married to Silas Vane, billionaire and... let’s call him an 'industrialist'."
He takes a sip of his soda.
"And now, suddenly, she’s painting crime scenes."
I freeze. My hand tightens on the stem of my glass.
"They’re landscapes," I say coolly.
"Are they?" He gestures to the painting behind me.The shipyard."That looks a lot like the Red Hook terminal. There was a hell of an accident there last month. Crane collapse. Gas explosion. Wiped out half the block."
"I wouldn't know," I lie. "I paint from imagination."
"Imagination," he repeats. He reaches into his jacket pocket.
I tense. My hand drifts to my thigh, but I’m not wearing the knife. I’m defenseless.
He pulls out a card. A business card.
He slides it across the bar.
DETECTIVE THOMAS KANE. NYPD - COLD CASE / ORGANIZED CRIME.
"Detective," I say, looking at the card but not touching it. "Is there a problem?"
"There are lots of problems, Mrs. Vane," Kane says. "For instance... a man named Nikolai Sokolov went missing the same night that crane collapsed."
"I don't know him."
"Don't you?" Kane tilts his head. "That’s funny. Because we found a car registered to a shell company of his crushed under that crane. And we found ballistic evidence scattered all over the asphalt. 5.56 rounds. 9mm rounds."
He leans in closer.
"And we found blood."
My heart is hammering.120 BPM.
"It was a gas explosion," I say, repeating the official story Silas paid the Fire Marshal to file.
"Gas explosions don't leave 9mm casings," Kane says. "But here’s the interesting part. We found a partial print on a piece of debris. It was small. A woman’s print."
He looks at my hands. My manicured, diamond-ringed hands.
