Ilet the party go on for a while, knowing that the artist wouldn’t leave his own show, keeping my eye on how many empty plastic cups he handed off to friends and gallery workers and random guests. “Want me to sign it for you? It might be worth something soon,” I heard him ask one. Ugh. How insufferable. But, on the bright side, it would probably be easy to get a DNA sample. If necessary.
Once the number of empty cups told me he was good and tipsy, I sidled over to him, arm in arm with Gabe. “If it isn’t Isaiah Franklin,” I cooed, taking my cue from him about whether he wanted to air-kiss or not.
He did not. He extended his hand for me to shake. I took it. His handshake was limp and a little clammy, like the condensation from all those plastic wine cups had soaked in. “So good to see you,” he said. Some artists at their shows dressed like they wanted to blend in with the walls, keep all the attention on the art. He’d gone with the opposite tactic: become art. You couldn’t miss him in his baggy banana-print sweater and his neon yellow skinny jeans. “Pomona Afton, I appreciate your presence. And I’m sorry, but what was your name again?”
Gabe extended his own hand. “I’m Gabe Morales, Pom’s boyfriend. Your art is great.”
Isaiah grimaced as he limply touched Gabe’s hand for what might have been the shortest handshake ever. I had to fight back a grimace as well.Your art is great? Come on, Gabe. Squeaky could do better. “What he means is, the space is so great. We’re loving how it reflects the themes of desolation in the pieces on that wall over there. It makes me think about how everybody is capable of terrible things, and isn’t that what makes us human beings?”
I was rewarded with an eyebrow raise and a thoughtful nod, as if Isaiah was truly mulling over what I’d said. The great thing about art, as I’d learned in my art history degree, was that you could see pretty much whatever you wanted in it, which meant I could take exams on three hours of sleep and the aftereffects of whatever random pills my supplier had given me that week. “Well said. I completely agree. It’s one of the reasons I decided to let this gallery show my work—I felt like they truly understood what I was trying to say.”
Sure, okay. Another thing I’d learned about artists both during and after my degree was they weren’t that picky. Everyone was desperate for some recognition, and they’d show their work pretty much anywhere that wanted to, and also sometimes places that didn’t. But I nodded as if what he was saying was 100 percent true. “Of course.” I paused for a moment, letting the chatter of the room fill the air. “How are you feeling after the other night? I imagine it must be hard knowing that your artwork played a role in the death of another person.”
A smug look crossed his face for a moment, just a moment, before it was replaced by an appropriately somber one. “Oh yes. Of course.”
“But also a little thrilling,” I said. “That’s what really grabbed us and made us decide that we simplymustown an early Isaiah Franklin. You know, since I don’t know when the peacock will stop being evidence.”
He preened. “An excellent decision. Though I’d talk to the gallery soon about your purchase. Everything’s going fast.”
“Of course,” I said. “But we can’t decide which one speaks to us the most. We were hoping you’d give us a brief tour. Talk to us about what each piece means to you.”
He flashed us a cocky smile. “Come with me. I’ll take you on a journey.”
The journey lasted exactly two steps before he stopped in front of a large painting, maybe four feet tall. It captured a man with a blurry face and a knife protruding from the canvas where his penis would otherwise be. “I call this one simplyViolence. It’s a bit of a self-portrait. Man reckoning with his sexuality.”
“I see,” I said, nodding. The brushstrokes were strong, the figure both confident and unsure. The canvas was a little spare, the colors a bit unbalanced, but once he found his footing, I really did think (grudgingly) that Isaiah would be an artist to watch. “So knives seem to be a real theme in your work.”
“They are.” Isaiah gestured for us to follow him to the next piece. “A knife can be so many things. A friend, when it’s used in the kitchen. A threat, when it’s held to someone’s throat.”
“A weapon, when it’s used to stab someone,” Gabe said helpfully.
Isaiah rolled his eyes, but only part of the way, like he remembered halfway through that he shouldn’t be rolling his eyes at people who wanted to buy his art. “Yes. A weapon.”
The next piece he stopped in front of was the one with the woman lost in the forest of dildos. “Take this painting, for instance,” he said. “It’s also a self-portrait, in a way. How can you expect to find something real when all you know is plastic? Your own self can be a weapon.”
“Absolutely,” I said, nodding as if what he’d said made total sense. “If anything, your own self can be more of a weapon than a knife. A knife can only harm one person at a time. One person can harm many people at once.”
Isaiah looked at me with newfound respect. Gabe looked atme like I’d lost my mind. “So profound,” Isaiah said. “If you don’t mind, I might use part of that when I discuss this painting in the future.”
“Use away,” I said. “By the way, did you get any interest in your work at the gala?”
His face lit up before it carefully smoothed over into boredom. “Some. Mrs. Phlume had a lot of questions about the peacock. Before her husband fell on it,” he clarified. “She wanted to know where the knives had come from, and what had inspired the arrangement. And Mrs. Jean-Pierre seemed really interested too.” Cora Jean-Pierre—the woman who’d seemed vaguely familiar. “I kind of hoped she might show tonight, but no luck so far.
“Kevin Miller really liked the photo I showed him of that one.” Isaiah pointed at a painting at the far side of the room, which showcased a variety of famous superheroes I recognized. They all wore their usual uniforms, but had brown paper bags over their heads. “I think that’s why his girlfriend is here to see it in person. And Denise Ryan asked if I’d want to donate one to her foundation for her to auction off.” He frowned. “Your mother was standing behind her and couldn’t stop laughing.”
I wondered why my mother had been so delighted by that. “That’s great,” I said. “It sounds like you received a lot of interest even before… you know, everything happened.”
If I’d kind of been hoping that would spur us organically to discuss it, those hopes fell when Isaiah turned his back. “Indeed. I appreciate you inviting me. The next one—”
“You know, Vienna was the one who told me I should invite you to my gala,” I said. It seemed important that he know that. “She suggested your artwork for display because she’d worked with you already. Just so you’re aware.”
He stopped in his tracks. I could see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat, as if he were swallowing hard. “I see. I’ll have to make sure to thank her.”
Yeah, by uninviting her to her own party.But I didn’t need to drive the knife in any deeper. I formed my lips into a pleasant smile. “You were going to take us to the next piece?”
Isaiah showed us around to another few paintings before landing us in front of a sculpture. “This is another piece from the same series as the peacock.”
We stared at it. It seemed that was all he had to say about this bird—some kind of long-necked seabird, I thought?—that was also constructed with knives. “I can feel the raw power,” I said. “What was your inspiration for this series?”
