I dig my earbuds out of my backpack and put them in, then grab my phone and bring up a playlist. The familiar song makes me feel normal. Almost like I’m back home, working at the bar and laughing with Doug about a weird customer. Feeling a little better, I dab a wide, stiff brush in water before pushing it into a moody dark-blue pigment.
Mom and I have never had premium cable or streaming at home, but we could usually get a few national networks and local channels to come through without too much static on our small countertop TV. Which is to say, I’ve seen my fair share of Bob Ross reruns—him dabbing “happy little trees” onto landscapes that always managed to look like fantasy lands to my city-kid eyes. I think of dear old Bob now as I sweep a diluted wash of paint all over the heavy paper. I press a little harder in some places, letting drips of colored water run down the length of my painting. The effect gives me a deep sense of satisfaction, like the paper is crying.
A few songs into my playlist, and I’m totally committed. Singing along with the lyrics, glancing over at Connor every few seconds like I can’t help myself. Mentally willing him to pay attention to me.
Of course, he doesn’t, though I swear I notice his broad shoulders tightening every time I sing, so I raise my voice, swirling the brush all over the paper and making an absolute mess.
It’s when I’m practically singing at the top of my lungs “We Can’t Be Friends” that he finally rises to his feet, his charcoal stick hitting the ground with a clatter. I pause, thewords dying in my throat when he stomps his way over to me. He’s scowling, his brows lowered, his lips thin, and he comes to a stop behind me.
Turning off the music, I hold my breath while he checks out my painting. The silence lasts for so long that I finally dare to look over my shoulder at him to find that he’s smiling. It disappears the moment our gazes meet.
“What is this?” He gestures toward the heavy paper.
I turn to face my work of art, tilting my head to the side. “Well … I suppose it’s an abstract representation of my feelings at the moment.”
It’s nothing but blobs and drips of dark paint that have merged together until the color is unidentifiable.
“It appears you’re feeling a … certain way.” The faint amusement in his voice is obvious, and my traitorous heart trips over itself. He’s hot. It feels like the air between us crackles and snaps, and I banish the idea. I can’t think like this about him. He is most definitely the enemy.
Crap, they all are so far, save for Sophia. And even she makes me nervous.
“Oh, definitely.” I nod, pretending I’m confident in my talents. “Do you like it?”
Our gazes meet once more, and his eyes are lighter. Like quicksilver. “Let’s just say you’re a better painter than singer.”
My jaw drops at his insult, though it feels more like he’s teasing. “Seriously?”
He nods, his lush mouth stern. “Most definitely.”
I leave him where he stands and head over to the student gallery, desperate to gather my agitated thoughts. I keep my gaze focused on the wall, taking it all in. While most of thepieces screamstudents trying hard!, my eye is drawn to a particular abstract painting that feels oddly … familiar.
It takes me a few minutes of studying the painting for it to finally come clear. It’s the tree and cliff from the photo Mom is obsessed with. The one she forced me to bring here. But the sense that I’ve seen this painting before goes beyond the subject. The style of painting, the treatment of light and color … I actually recognize it.
It’s my mother. She painted this. I’m sure of it.
“That one gets to me, too.” Connor’s deep voice pulls me from my melancholy thoughts, and I turn to find him standing beside me, his head tilted back as he contemplates the painting. “Considering it’s the exact spot where Isla Vale murdered my sister.”
A ripple of cold apprehension slithers down my spine, and it takes everything inside of me to keep my voice even. “How do you know she murdered your sister? Weren’t they best friends or something?”
“I never trusted Isla. She was sneaky, especially those last few weeks before Emily—died.” He swallows hard, and I feel bad for challenging him with my callous question. “No one ever knew where Isla was, not even my sister half the time, and that’s just odd considering that yes, they were best friends. ‘Up to no good’ is what I always told Emily, but she defended Isla to the end.”
I’m thinking Isla was probably sneaking around with Julian, not that I can tell Connor. I’m not supposed to know anything about anyone at Wickham.
The bell rings, and Connor takes that as his cue to gather his belongings and exit the studio without another word to me.The door thumps shut before I can make it over to my easel and grab my dirty brushes to rinse them clear of paint.
It’s when I’m standing at the sink, letting the cold water turn my fingers to icicles, that I realize I need to go find Julian. See if I can get him to talk to me about Isla without blowing my cover.
But how the hell am I supposed to do that?
CHAPTER EIGHT
After I’ve gathered my things, I leave the art building, surprised by how quiet the campus is despite the bell ringing not even five minutes ago. Or maybe it was ten? It took me a while to clean up after myself. Plus, I was halfway out the door when I decided to go back and check the stack of canvases again to ensure no one can tell there’s anything hidden there. I have to keep reassuring myself that it’s an excellent hiding place, but I’m still a little nervous that someone could discover them. The dossier especially will expose me as a complete fraud. If anyone finds it, I’ll be ruined. More importantly, I’ll have to leave Wickham a complete failure.
No way can I let that happen.
I’m heading for my dorm room when I end up detouring into the alumni garden. I don’t stop walking until I’m standing in front of the bronze statue again. I study the boy’s face. Pulling out my phone, I open up the photo I took earlier, and it’s all the confirmation I need.
The statue is definitely the boy who had his arm aroundmy mother’s shoulders.
